UC-NRLF 


953 

I^at-       I         *B   27U    bID 
r\ 

AT1VE    BARDS; 


Other  Occasional  Piece* 


E.  L,  CAREY  fe  A.  HART,— CHHSNUT  STREET, 

183K 


NATIVE    BARDS; 


Satf rftal  Effuston : 


WITH 


Other  Occasional  Pieces. 


BT 

J.  t.  M. 


E.  L.  CAREY   &  A.  HART,-CHESNUT  STREET. 
1S31. 


j 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  cf  Congress,  in  the 
year  1831,  by  E.  L.  CAREY  &  A.  HART,  in  the  office  of 
the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


Mifflin  &  Parry,  Printers, 
59  Locust  Street. 


TO 

ROBERT  T.  DUNBAR, 

PLANTER, 

OF 
NATCHEZ,   MISSISSIPPI, 

UNWORTHY    TOKEN    OF    THE    AUTI 
ATTACHMENT    AND    REGARD 

IS 

AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED. 


PREFACE. 


In  exposing  this  little  work  to  the  general  eye,  I 
would  take  the  liberty  to  remark,  that  it  is  not  the 
production  of  an  author  by  profession,  and  that  its 
contents,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  one  piece, 
were  not  originally  written  with  a  view  to  publica 
tion.  It  is  composed  almost  entirely  of  the  literary 
recreations  which  have  from  time  to  time  beguiled 
the  ruggedness  of  an  arduous  study,  and  soothed  the 
asperities  of  a  toilsome  and  eventful  youth.  This 
explanation,  if  it  obtain  not  the  indulgence  of  the 
critic,  will  at  least  satisfactorily  explain  the  many 
defects,  which  will  doubtless  offend  the  eye  of  the 
intelligent  reader.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  apologize 
for  the  acrimonious  warmth  which  characterizes 
the  first  piece,  a  feeling  from  which  I  could  not  de 
fend  myself,  when  I  beheld  the  degrading  spectacle 
which  our  poetical  literature  presents  to  the  mor- 


tified  American  and  sneering  foreigner.  *  It  may  be 
found  also  that  I  have  dwelt  with  too  much  detail 
upon  the  coxcombry  of  manner,  affected  by  our  as 
pirants  for  the  bays  ;  but  as  it  has  often  filled  me 
with  unutterable  disgust,  I  really  could  not  permit 
the  opportunity  to  escape  me,  of  exposing  some  of 
its  ludicrous  and  offensive  peculiarities.  A  similar 
feeling  led  me  into  the  digression,  at  the  expense  of 
the  unity  of  my  plan,  in  which  I  have  attempted  to 
cast  ridicule  upon  thefuromania  (pardon  the  etymo 
logy)  which  disgraces  the  taste  of  the  day,  and 
which  I  cannot  help  likening  to  the  rage  for  melo 
dramatic  spectacle,  which  has  superseded  the  more 
legitimate  and  intellectual  entertainments  of  the 
stage.  The  liberty  which  I  have  taken  will  surprize 
less,  when  I  declare,  that  the  work  in  which  it  oc 
curs  was  commenced  without  any  regular  design  or 
preconceived  plan,  so  that  it  grew  to  its  present  size 
and  shape,  as  it  .were,  spontaneously,  and  to  the  ex- 

*  A  friend  dissenting  from  the  indiscriminate  censure 
conveyed  in  this  paragraph,  asked  whether  I  had  read 
Mr.  Bryant's  Thanatopsis.  It  is  with  great  pleasure  I 
declare  my  sincere  admiration  for  that  production,  which 
evinces  no  common  share  of  poetical  talent  and  feel 
ing-. 


elusion  of  several  topics,  which  I  had  vaguely  in 
contemplation  when  I  set  out. 

With  regard  to  the  characters,  or  to  speak  more 
correctly,  specimens  of  characters,  which  I  have  in 
troduced,  I  would  merely  observe  that  they  are  ra 
ther  sketches  than  portraits,  and  should  with  one  or 
two  exceptions,  be  considered  rather  as  individuals 
representing  classes,  than  accurate  representations 
of  distinct  personages.  I  will  not  pretend  to  conceal, 
however,  that  while  drawing  each  portrait,  I  had 
some  individual  in  view,  although  I  may  have  merg 
ed  his  personal  characteristics  in  a  more  general  and 
comprehensive  form.  I  should  have  multiplied 
these  specimens,  (no  difficult  effort)  had  not  the 
task  been  ungrateful  to  my  nature,  and  revolting  to 
my  feelings.  I  must  not  forget  to  ask  pardon  of  the 
ladies,  for  some  good  humoured  raillery,  in  which  I 
have  indulged,  and  beg  them  not  to  consider  these 
sportive  sallies  as  intended  to  be  offensive.* — Sed 
manum  de  tabula. 

The  other  pieces  contained  in  this  little  volume, 
were  written  at  various  periods,  generally  upon  the 

*  Oh  !  for  a  fine  thief,  of  the  age  of  two  and  twenty, 
or  thereabouts!—  Falstaff. 


8 

spur  of  the  occasion,  and  must  be  regarded,  what 
ever  may  be  their  defects  or  merits  in  other  respects, 
as,  at  least,  strongly  expressive  of  the  feelings  or 
circumstances  under  the  influence  of  which  they 
were  produced. 

In  conclusion,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  admit,  in  ap 
pearing  for  the  first  time  before  the  public,  that  I 
feel  no  small  degree  of  anxiety  about  the  reception 
of  my  "virgin  muse,"  whose  shrinking  timidity  did 
not  very  readily  yield  to  the  persuasions,  which  final 
ly  induced  her  to  expose  herself  to  the  general  gaze. 
But  this  is  the  old  pretence  : — "  Oblig'd  by  hunger 
and  request  of  friends."  I  have  often  envied,  though 
I  can  by  no  means  lay  claim  to,  the  philosophic  spirit 
of  the  author,  who,  when  told  that  the  public  had 
damned  his  play,  very  coolly  replied,  that  he  would 
take  the  liberty  of  returning  the  compliment. 


NATIVE  BARDS, 


SATIRICAL    EFFUSIO.V 


I  cannot  out  think  it  the  most  reasonable  thing  in  the 
world  to  distinguish  good  writers  by  discouraging  the  bad. 
Nor  is  it  an  ill  natured  thing  to  the  very  persons  upon 
whom  the  reflections  are  made.  It  is  true  it  may  deprive 
them  a  little  the  sooner  of  a  short  profit  and  a  transitory 
reputation,  but  then  it  may  have  a  good  effect  and  oblige 
them  (before  it  be  too  late),  to  decline  that  for  which 
they  are  so  very  unfit,  and  to  have  recourse  to  something 
in  which  they  may  be  more  successful. 

Dennis*  Remarks  on  Prince  Arthur. 


NATIVE  BARDS. 


Curs'd  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow, 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe, 
Give  virtue  scandal,  innocence  a  fear, 
Or  from  the  soft-eyed  virgin  steal  a  tear. 

*  *  *  *  * 

A  lash  like  mine  no  honest  man  shall  dread, 
But  all  such  babbling  blockheads  in  his  stead. 

POPE,  Epilogue  to  the  Satires, 

Each  songster,  riddler,  ev'ry  nameless  name, 
All  crowd,  who  foremost  shall  be  damn'd  to  fame. 

Ibid.  Dunciad. 


The  lash  of  satire  and  the  sting  of  song, 

Have  oft  reclaim'd  or  sham'd  at  least  the  throng, 

Who  virtue's  noble  dictates  have  forsworn, 

Or  laugh'd  religion's  sacred  law  to  scorn  ; 

Whose  callous  souls  from  honor  long  estrang'd, 

By  love  unmelted,  as  by  fear  unchang'd, 

Nor  earthly  pains,  nor  dread  of  death  can  shake, 

Or  bid  the  stony,  sleeping  conscience  wake. 

Strange,  that  who  heeds  nor  pow'r's  uplifted  rod, 

Nor  trembles  at  the  anger  of  his  God, 

Who  justice  mocks,  and  judgment  holds  a  jest, 

Nor  feels  the  vulture  preying  in  his  breast, 

Before  the  poet's  feeble  breath  should  quail, 

And  bide  the  biddings  of  a  thing  so  frail. 


12 

But  thus  it  is  ;  the  arm  of  wit  can  strike 

The  boldly  wicked  through  his  shield  of  might, 

Can  pluck  the  mask  that  hides  his  guilty  face, 

Or  gilds  it  with  a  meretricious  grace, 

Hold  forth  to  hissing  scorn  the  villain's  name, 

And  far  and  wide  his  infamy  proclaim, 

Blasted  and  blacken'd  all,  by  satire's  scorching  flame. 

My  scope  is  not  so  high,  nor  trust  so  great, 

To  abler  hands  I  leave  a  task  whose  weight 

Mine  cannot  wield,  folly  I  make  my  game, 

And  wing  my  shafts  with  a  less  noble  aim. 

What  rod,  I  ask  then,  to  chastise  the  fool 

Can  match  with  thine,  resistless  ridicule  ? 

What  weapon,  keen  or  piercing,  can  arrest 

The  monster's  progress  like  a  scornful  jest  ? 

Whose  pow'r  the  rich,  the  proud,  the  mighty  own, 

And  coxcombs,  male  or  female,  curse  and  groan. 

Spirit  of  Pope !  Oh  !  might  I  catch  a  spark 

Of  thine  immortal  flame,  amid  the  dark 

In  which  I  dwell,  and  at  thy  living  fire 

Kindle  my  glowing  breast's  indignant  ire  ; 

Might  I  but  learn  the  secret  of  that  art 

\Vhose  withering  strength,  and  ever  during  smart, 

Fierce  Dennis,  drivelling  Tibbalds,  Blackmore  felt, 

Which  wheresoe'er  it  turn'd,  -lestruction  dealt 

On  focls  and  flatterers,  with  their  beastly  train, 

I  would  not  fear  to  wield  my  pen  in  vain  ; 

A  second  Dunciad  should  appear  and  sweep 

Alcides  like,  the  Augean  stable's  heap, 


13 

Clean  out  the  filthy  purlieus  that  disgrace 
Our  mental  realm,  that  every  spot  deface, 
And  far  and 


But  .M  F,-\ear  te  &ovell™S  ^nants  chace 
But  ah  lElyah  mounting  to  the  skies, 
Bears  too  his  mantle  from  earth's  longing 

thesacred 


nd 

nd  with  h,s  robe,  the  prophet's  spirit  catch 
Nor  v,ce  and  folly  shall  again  regard 
A  foe  to  match  with  Twickenham's  honor'd  bard 


1  «  though  I  shrink  before  his  towering  crest 
H,s  proud  example  stimulates  my  breaft. 
r,s  not  the  will  I  want,  had  I  the  pow'r 
Ta  crush  these  puny  creatures  of  an  hour 
1  hese  shameless  scribblers  that  disgrace  our  name 
And  stam  and  soil  the  escutcheon  of  our  fame, 
The  great  five  hundred  poets  that  abound 
L,ke  mushrooms  in  the  dunghill's  steaming  ground 
The  countless  authors  that  in  ev'ry  town    ' 
And  village  bounds,  a  nuisance  foul  have  grown 
The  p.ddlmgpoetasters,  scrawling  scribes, 
W  ^  nospread  throughout  the  land  in  myriad  tribes 
I  hat  burst  m  darkening  swarms  and  creep  or  fly 
Like  locust  bands  beclouding  A  fric's  sky  • 
Oh  were  the  pow'r  but  mine,  as  is  the  will 
o  save  our  realm  from  this  wide  spreading  ill 


14 

To  crush  the  hydra  headed  monster's  sway 

And  brush  his  filthy  progeny  away, 

Arm'd  with  a  "whip  of  scorpions"  in  my  hand, 

From  this  rapacious  brood  I'd  free  the  groaning  land. 

I  love  my  country,  bless  my  native  soil, 

The  son  of  one  who  strove  midst  blood  and  toil, 

Long  strove,  and  suflfer'd  much,  with  dauntless  breast, 

To  plant  young  freedom's  empire  in  the  West ; 

I  would  not  sit  with  patient  soul  and  hear 

Her  name  revil'd,  nor  lend  a  tranquil  ear' 

To  story  of  her  wrongs  which  should  be  mine, 

Nor  patriot  worships  at  a  purer  shrine. 

How  oft  when  wandering  on  some  distant  strand, 

Tow'rd  my  far  home  my  spirit  would  expand, 

And  sweet  the  memory  come  of  my  lov'd  parent  land. 

But  jealous  of  her  glory  and  her  fame, 

It  grieves  me  much  and  fills  my  soul  with  shame, 

To  view  the  foul  disease,  the  loathsome  pest, 

That  stains  her  brow  and  riots  in  her  breast, 

To  mark  these  vile  pretenders  to  the  muse 

On  ev'ry  side  their  myriad  swarms  diffuse, 

(l)Thick  as  the  countless,  formless  things  which  stir, 

Nor  dead,  nor  living,  in  Nile's  fetid  mire, 

That  crawl  and  wallow  in  the  muck  and  slime 

Which  Egypt's  shores  with  pregnant  filth  begrime, 

Rot  ere  they  live,  corrupt  before  they  die, 

(2) "Till  the  land  stinks  so  num'rous  is  the  fry." 

In  the  proud  days  of  England's  monarch  Anne, 

In  Grub-street's  famous  precincts  liv'd  a  clan 

Of  hungry,  starveling  bards  who  rav'd  and  wrote 

With  furious  ardor,  and  discordant  note, 


15 

By  famine  urg'd,  and  cold,  ill  cloth'd,  ill  fed, 
Bartering  their  products  coarse,  for  coarser  bread  ; 
Want  was  their  muse,  starvation  their  defence, 
Clamouring  like  beggars  for  their  paltry  pence. 
But  happy  England  then  with  pride  could  boast 
Of  glorious  spirits  an  unrivall'd  host, 
(3)Great  Dryden,  matchless  Pope,  chaste  Addison, 
Swift,  Prior,  Garth  and  Gay,  with  more  who  shone 
The  brilliant  constellations  of  an  age 
Yet  unsurpass'd  in  history's  ample  page. 
Our  mighty  Grub-street,  far  and  wide  extends, 
From  East  to  West,  from  North  to  South,  nor  ends 
But  with  our  shores,  and  have  we  ought  to  make 

amends  ? 

Would  I  could  show  each  prostituted  name, 
Like  CromwelFs  "damn'd  to  everlasting  fame," 
Would  that  each  desperate  rhymster  I  might  give 
To  infamy,  inverse  that  should  outlive 
The  transient  epoch  which  his  works  deface, 
And  hold  him  up  in  eloquent  disgrace, 
A  warning  wide,  an  object  for  the  scorn 
Of  distant  realms  and  ages  yet  unborn, 
To  vindicate  with  after  times  the  land 
Which  gave  me  birth,  from  this  polluting  brand. 
Vain  hope  in  one  to  fame  as  little  born 
As  those  he  rails  at  with  indignant  scorn, 
Obscure,  unknown,  whose  wish,  abhorring  strife, 
Is  but  to  steal  with  tranquil  pace  through  life, 
Himself  perhaps  as  worthy  of  the  blame 
As  those  his  angry  verse  upholds  to  shame; 


16 


Prone  to  dislike,  and  eager  to  condemn, 

Does  he  not  act  what  he  disdains  in  them  ? 

Well,  be  it  so — I  speak  not  truth  the  less, 

E'en  though  my  own  transgressions  I  confess, 

And  like  the  parson  say  to  those  who  chide, 

"  Friends  do  not  as  I  do,  but  as  I  bid;" 

Surely  he  gives  a  proof  of  candour  rare, 

A  proof  sincere,  who  scorns  himself  to  spare, 

And  of  the  blame  he  deals,  accepts  his  share. 

Yet  am  I  not  of  that  low,  grovelling  crew, 

(Call  this  pride,  vanity,  'tis  not  less  true,) 

That  shameless,  heartless,  despicable  race 

Of  scriblers  who  the  name  of  bard  disgrace 

(That  sacred  title,  that  illustrious  name 

Of  bard  and  prophet,  which  was  once  the  same,) 

By  paltry  trick,  vile  arts,  and  base  intrigue, 

Who  cling  together  in  dishonest  league, 

And  earn  by  petty  management  the  fame 

They  know  full  well  their  merits  cannot  claim, 

By  treachery  scale  Parnassus'  airy  mount, 

And  dabbling  soil  the  pure  Castalian  fount, 

Pollute  with  sacrilege  the  holy  shrine 

Of  Phoebus,  and  degrade  the  sacred  nine. 

No  !  God  be  prais'd !  I  have  not  made  the  muse 

A  prostitute  to  such  debasing  use, 

I  have  not  sought  her  face,  nor  won  the  smile 

Of  the  chaste  nymph,  for  purposes  so  vile  ; 

Ah  !  no !  the  Aonian  maid  to  me  hath  been 

As  a  fond  sister  to  console,  and  wean 

My  wearied  spirit  from  the  sordid  strife 

Of  earth,  and  sickening  cares  of  life, 


17 

To  scatter  flowers  on  my  thorny  path 

And  melt  my  anxious  soul  from  pain  or  wrath; 

Her  gentle  tone  hath  lull'd  the  torturing  jar 

Of  passion,  and  subdued  the  bosom's  war, 

Her  sweet,  angelic  voice  oft  sooth'd  my  heart, 

And  still  composed  my  breast  with  its  bewitching  art. 

Calm,  I  have  kept  the  tenour  of  my  way, 

Nor  from  the  common  track  have  long'd  to  stray, 

Content  to  seek  for  happiness  at  home, 

For  bliss,  in  mine  own  breast,  nor  elsewhere  roam. 

I  never  strove  for  fame  nor  courted  praise, 

My  quest  hath  been  for  hearts-ease,  not  for  bays; 

The  laurel  wreath,  the  palm,  I  have  not  sought, 

Nor  vain  applause,  nor  empty  breath  have  bought, 

At  the  dear  sacrifice  of  precious  ease, 

The  price  which  men  must  pay  to  shine  or  please. 

No  more  of  this,  it  is  a  task  ingrate 

Of  selfj  or  good,  or  ill,  though  due,  to  prate; 

With  eager  ardour  I  retrace  my  track, 

Impatient  to  hunt  down  the  clamorous  pack 

Of  scribes  and  scribblers  whose  tumultuous  throng 

Counts  like  young  David  its  ten  thousand  strong;(4) 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  wind  they  crowd, 

A  host  unnumber'd,  busy,  boist'rous,  loud, 

And  spread  throughout  our  borders  from  the  shore 

Which  echoes  back  the  vast  Atlantic's  roar, 

To  where  the  ocean  waves  of  Mississippi  pour. 

And  first,  ye  Yankee  Byrons,  take  your  part, 

Ye  mimic  Harolds,  feel  the  well  earn'd  smart, 

Ye,  whose  wild  strains,  and  dark,  defying  air, 

Would  ape  the  thrilling  songster  of  despair; 


18 


Ye  merchant  Corsairs,  legal  Laras,  lend 
An  ear  attentive,  to  a  candid  friend, 
Who  kindly  would  your  erring  steps  reclaim, 
And  save  yourselves  and  native  soil  much  shame — 
Why  will  ye  seek,  aspiring,  to  attain 
The  lordly  poet's  dark,  Promethean  strain  ? 
»Why  emulate  by  your  low,  grovelling  flight 
The  monarch  eagle's  proud  career  of  light, 
And  seek  to  track  his  journey  toward  that  sun, 
Whose  blaze  your  feeble  glance  must  ever  shun  ? 
'Tis  not  by  shaving  of  your  brows,  nor  hair 
Whose  streaming  locks,  like  those  of  meteors,  flare 
Upon  the  wind,  nor  cloak  whose  gloomy  fold 
Defends  not  yet  the  naked  neck  from  cold  ; 
'Tis  not  by  wandering  with  a  low'ring  brow 
Compos'd  in  all  the  tragic  lines  of  woe, 
Nor  walking  among  men  as  in  a  cloud, 
With  a  stern  visage,  and  an  aspect  proud; 
'Tis  not,  I  say,  by  all  this  nauseous  trick, 
These  madcap  airs  that  speak  the  lunatic, 
Wrhich  can  deceive  some  foolish  girl  at  most 
Who  deems  she  sees  terrific  Lara's  ghost, 
And  then  exclaims  with  a  most  flattering  awe, 
"  How  much  like  Byron  !  Mr.  Simpkins  !  la  !" 
That  you  can  hope,  dull  souls,  to  emulate 
The  bard  of  sadness,  dark  and  desolate, 
Or  in  your  misty,  frothy  strains,  infuse 
The  spirit  of  his  wild,  romantic  muse. 
The  outward  form  cannot  the  mind  avail, 
And  if  it  did,  e'en  there  you  sadly  fail, 


19 

You  cannot  wholly  play  the  part  you  take, 

Your  vulgar  nature  \vill  oft  times  out  break, 

The  pedlar  and  the  prince  can  ne'er  agree, 

Nor  base  born  coarseness,  with  true  majesty. 

Go,  then,  and  with  a  grateful  heart  to  God, 

Devour  each  day  your  pudding  and  your  cod, 

Comfort  yourselves  with  flaggons,  courage  !  cheer 

Your  maudlin  spirits  with  besotting  beer, 

Go,  plough  your  fields,  teach  hopeful  youth,  engross, 

Plant  onions,  notions  vend,  for  gold  sell  dross, 

Vote,  muster,  edit  journals,  import  tea, 

Make  (5)  Goshen  cheeses,  wretched  rum  for  sea, 

Bad  cloths,  and  flimsy  fabrics  for  the  mart ' 

Of  the  poor  south,  that  still  must  pay  and  smart; 

But  sport  not  antics  on  the  awful  grave 

Of  him  alas !  whom  genius  could  not  save. 

Illustrious  Harold  !  in  these  lines  be  paid 

A  trembling  tribute  to  thy  mighty  shade; 

I  cannot  coldly  speak  thy  name,  but  feel 

A  solemn  fervour  through  my  bosom  steal, 

As  I  recall  thine  image  dark  and  sad, 

By  clouds  encompass'd,  and  in  tempests  clad; 

Thy  course  was  short,  thy  flight  though  proud  and 

high, 

Glanced  like  a  meteor  through  the  frighted  sky; 
Born  to  astonish  man's  admiring  sight, 
And  sacrifice  thyself  for  earth's  delight, 
The  ardent  flame  which  burn'd  within  thy  breast, 
Though  bright,  to  thee  became  the  torture  of  unrest. 
Thou  wert  not  made  for  happiness  below, 
This  world  could  not  assuage  thy  spirit's  glow. 


20 


Being  of  nobler  clay,  nor  earth's  low  clime 
Suffice  thy  soul,  or  slake  the  thirst  sublime 
Which  long'd  for  higher  joys,  and  prouder  scope, 
With  a  deep  yearning,  and  a  quenchless  hope. 
Thy  faults  were  many  and  thou  oft  didst  err, 
I  cannot  prove  thy  memory's  flatterer, 
Yet  like  the  angel  with  a  pitying  tear, 
I'd  blot  the  stains  which  sully  thy  career, 
Nor  mark  as  on  the  radiant  orb  I  gaze, 
The  cloudy  specks  that  dim  his  dazzling  blaze. 
What'er  thy  life,  how  noble  was  thy  death ! 
Martyr  to  freedom,  Greece,  thou  pour'dst  thy  breath, 
And  didst  to  after  times  a  glorious  name  bequeath. 
But  hadst  thou  known  to  what  thy  fame  would  come, 
Thy  muse  had  ceased  to  sing,  thy  voice  been  dumb, 
Its  degradation  would  have  brought  a  tear 
To  thy  proud  eye,  and  forc'd  a  withering  sneer; 
To  mark  thy  name  with  stupid  ignorance 
Become  the  excuse  for  all  extravagance; 
To  view  thyself  the  example  and  pretence 
Of  ev'ry  rhymster  against  common  sense, 
Who  thinks  it  argues  genius  to  seem  sad, 
And  deems,  the  fool,  a  poet  should  be  mad. 
There's  not  a  beardless  boy  that's  "  mad  or  vain," 
Who  does  not  emulate  thy  lofty  strain, 
Not  one  poor  devil  author,  starveling  scribe, 
But  who  pretends  thy  spirit  to  imbibe, 
Nor  doggrel  scribbler  for  the  weekly  press, 
Thy  widow'd  muse  who  lusts  not  to  caress. 
They  write,  they  rave,  they  rant,  on  ev'ry  side, 
And  pour  their  musings  in  a  whelming  tide 


21 

Of  sighs,  and  sobs,  and  snivelling  whimpers,  till 
Rivers  of  mingled  tears  and  ink  they  spill. 
All,  all,  lift  up  to  thee  their  dazzled  eyes, 
Tir'd  of  low  earth,  they  rush  into  the  skies, 
And  spite  of  reason,  nature,  fate,  would  Byronize.  (6) 
But  who  is  he  that  meets  my  fancy's  eye 
With  face  fanatic  lifted  up  on  high, 
Who  seems  to  scorn  tl\e  company  of  men 
As  all  unworthy  of  his  lofty  ken, 
And  like  a  being  of  superior  birth 
Would  even  spurn  his  common  mother  earth  ? 
Some  mighty  genius  sure,  or  bedlamite, 
For  now  the  difference  has  become  but  slight, 
And  madness  is  to  poetry  allied 
So  near,  'tis  hard  between  them  to  decide. 
Thus  when  the  maid  whose  soul  Apollo  fir'd, 
To  know  the  future,  and  declare,  inspired, 
With  trembling  awe  ascended  the  tripod, 
And  felt  within  her  breast,  the  striving  God, 
Her  eyeballs  glar'd,  her  rigid  hair  upstood, 
Fear  shook  her  limbs,  and  horror  froze  her  blood, 
The  holy  rage  so  rack'd  her  tossing  frame, 
A  maniac  fury,  seem'd  the  sacred  flame. 
Say,  who  is  he,  again  I  ask,  whose  air 
So  melo-dramatic,  portends  despair, 
Who  seems  to  Iab9ur  'neath  the  stern  controul 
Of  a  poetic  agony  of  soul, 
And  wrestle  with  a  fiend  as  wild  he  goes, 
With  inward  strivings,  and  convulsive  throes  ? 
3 


22 

You  take  him  for  some  genius  proud,  sublime, 

A  master  spirit  of  his  land  and  time, 

One  of  those  souls  an  age  doth  oft  refuse, 

A  miracle  of  mind,  pride  of  the  muse, 

The  very  moisture  on  his  brow,  Castalian  dews. 

How  sad  is  your  mistake,  though  such  he  deems 

Himself,  amid  his  vapoury  dreams, 

And  lives,  he  says,  contented  and  alone, 

In  a  vast,  wild  creation  of  his  own, 

(A  sort  of  vague,  poetic  cant,  I  fear, 

To  others,  as  to  me,  not  very  clear,) 

He  is  indeed,  the  wonder  of  his  set, 

His  own  devoted,  scribbling  cabinet, 

Compos'd  of  those  who  have,  or  would  set  up 

With  his  good  word  a  literary  shop; 

Who  take  him  for  their  model  and  their  type, 

And  far  and  near  his  nauseous  praises  pipe. 

Talk  not  to  them  of  Dryden,  Pope,  or  Gay, 

"  Yes,  those  were  pretty  poets  in  their  day, 

"  They  versified  with  spirit  and  with  ease 

"And  even  now  indeed  may  sometimes  please," 

Shrugging  their  shoulders  they  reply  and  sneer, 

"  But  then  they  feeling,  fancy,  lack'd,  while  here 

"  In  this  great  bard  these  noble  traits  combine 

"With  ev'ry  talent,  human  or  divine. 

"The  system  has  quite  chang'd  you  needs  must 

know, 

"  And  what  was  good  of  old  is  not  so  now; 
"  We  have  obtain'd  in  poetry  new  light, 
"  That  shines  abroad  so  gloriously  bright," 
(Its  ardent  votaries  are  dazzled  quite.) 


23 

Magnus  Apollo,  shines  in  ev'ry  sheet, 

With  honours  heap'd  so  thickly  and  so  sweet, 

They  absolutely  cloy,  nay  worse,  pollute, 

Like  perfumes  plaster'd  on  a  prostitute. 

We  have  descriptions  of  his  face  and  mien, 

His  lofty  forehead,  and  his  visage  lean, 

His  fine  poetic  eye,  his  noble  air, 

So  grand,  one  scarce  from  worship  can  forbear. 

Ah  !  learn  one  sober  truth,  however  sad, 

This, — your  mad  poets,  friend,  are  also  bad, 

And  genius  does  not  signify  the  want 

Of  common  sense,  despite  the  age's  cant; 

A  vain  idea,  a  pernicious  rule, 

That  ofttimes  makes  a  madman  of  a  fool, 

And  sends  to  Bedlam,  or  consigns  to  shame, 

More  souls  than  any  folly  I  can  name. 

Believe  me,  friend,  it  will  not  long  suffice 

To  look  the  poet  only,  and  seem  wise; 

This  vulgar  clap  trap,  these  low,  stage  trick  arts, 

Wild  glances,  solemn  airs,  and  sudden  starts, 

Cannot  of  genuine  merit  take  the  place, 

But  bring  at  last  exposure  and  disgrace. 

This  fate  I've  known  an  actor  fam'd  befall, 

Whose  talent  was  to  rave,  to  rant,  and  bawl, 

Whose  power  was  muscle,  and  whose  passion  lung, 

Whose  high  wrought  efforts  not  from  genius  sprung; 

Though  long  he  held  the  scene,  and  taste  defied, 

And  look'd  on  all  with  an  oppressive  pride, 

His  arts  expos'd  at  length,  he  sank  in  shame, 

And  fell,  to  rise  no  more,  with  blasted  fame. 


24 


I  fear  I've  grown  ill  natur'd,  splenetic, 
Of  sentimental  cut  throats  I'm  quite  sick, 
(Alas  !  that  I  should  have  so  little  taste 
Nor  join  my  suffrage  with  an  age  so  chaste,1) 
Corsairs  by  sea,  and  cut-purses  by  land, 
That  board  your  ships,  or  boldly  bid  you  stand, 
Or  pick  your  pockets  clean,  or  rob  in  alleys, 
The  heroes  of  the  gallows,  or  the  galleys  ; 
Fine  fellows,  noble  blades,  upon  my  word, 
So  well  they  wield  a  cutlass  or  a  sword, 
Their  forms  so  sturdy,  and  their  eye  so  keen, 
So  bold  their  port,  so  chivalrous  their  mien. 
But  how  they  always  have,  is  vastly  queer, 
Cutthroat,  or  cutpurse,  thief,  or  buccaneer, 
Some  fond,  romantic  maid,  those  men  of  blood, 
To  soothe  their  leisure,  and  to  cook  their  food, 
To  drop  a  tear  when  they  prepare  to  roam, 
And  with  a  kiss  and  comfort,  welcome  home, 
Supply  them  with  clean  linen,  sweet  and  fair, 
And  wash  the  blood  that's  clotted  in  their  hair, 
Nurse  them  when  sick,  their  spirits  animate 
When  brandy  fails,  and  cheer  their  lonely  state, 
I  wish,  egad,  I  was  so  fortunate. 
These  gentry  too  are  always  so  divine, 
The  very  cream  of  ev'ry  thing  that's  fine, 
And  talk  so  interestingly  of  love, 
And  sentiment  and  soul,  it  needs  must  move, 
Of  justice,  honour,  mercy,  and  all  that, 
That  common  virtue  seems  to  theirs  quite  fiat, 
And  one  would  almost  draw  the  inference  sad, 
True  goodness  harbours  only  with  the  bad. 


25 

But  is  it  not  a  little  strange,  the  taste 
Of  those  fair  maidens,  modest,  pure  and  chaste  ? 
To  dwell  with  "  minions  of  the  moon,"  and  men 
Who  rove  the  seas  or  haunt  some  gloomy  den, 
Whose  hands  are  stain'd  with  blood,  who  steal  from 

all, 

An  honest  trade  they  primitive  justice  call, 
And  only  seek,  kind  souls,  to  equalize 
The  rights  of  nature,  which  with  zeal  they  prize; 
Thus,  meum,  tuum,  o'er  their  ill  got  wine, 
They  reason  quite  away  with  logic  fine. 
I  am  not  quite  a  coward,  though  not  brave, 
Yet  dread  the  sight  of  bandit  or  of  knave, 
Rhinaldo  Rhinaldini,  Captain  Kidd 
Have  oft  in  dreams  my  panting  breast  bestrid, 
And  when  I  roam  o'er  fell,  or  sail  o'er  flood, 
I  pray  to  meet  them  not  by  sea  or  wood, 
And  think,  were  I  a  maid,  I'd  rather  flee, 
Than  trust  my  honour  in  such  company. 
Poor  souls  !  with  hunger  too,  they  oft  must  pine, 
Have  no  fix'd  hour  at  which  they  daily  dine, 
Or  what  is  worse,  drink  tea,  dear,  gentle  sinners  ! 
Because  their  lovers  first  must  steal  their  dinners, 
And  many  little  female  comforts  miss, 
So  necessary  to  domestic  bliss. 
But  'tis  no  easy  task  to  comprehend 
The  sex,  and  find  out  where  their  fancies  tend; 
Perhaps  their  ardent  souls  prefer  a  life 
Replete  with  changes,  with  adventures  rife, 
3* 


26 

Pleasures  the  humdrum  business  cannot  give, 
Of  the  dull  scenes  in  which  alas  !  we  live. 
Women  we  know  and  read  it  in  their  glance, 
Have  ever  been  the  lovers  of  romance, 
A  kindred  flame  is  all  that  they  require, 
Seek  only  passion's  warm  and  mutual  fire, 
Without  which,  in  their  eyes,  a  saint's  a  devil, 
And  with  it  fiends  not  altogether  evil. 
These  heroes  fierce  their  bosoms  so  entrance, 
That  now  an  honest  man  has  scarce  a  chance, 
They  deem  a  sober  citizen  a  bore, 
Fellows  that  never  dipt  their  hands  in  gore, 
Know  nothing  of  romance,  adventures  bold, 
Lack  spirit,  made  of  base  born  mould. 
So  anxious  am  I  to  deserve  their  grace, 
I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  adorn  my  face 
With  fierce  mustachios  and  then  sally  out, 
And  sweep  the  seas,  or  in  the  forests  scout, 
Arm'd  with  a  trusty  cutlass,  glorious  blade  I 
To  earn  my  bread,  and  win  some  gentle  maid ; 
Blackburn  himself  my  prowess  should  out  brave* 
But  then,  alas  !  I  have  a  soul  to  save. 
Doubtless  some  homespun  epic  will  appear, 
Whose  hero  is  a  roving  buccaneer, 
Perhaps  that  canting  rogue  so  lately  hung, 
The  pirate  Gibbs,  shall  by  some  bard  be  sung, 
I  think  his  story  could  not  fail  to  please, 
Some  Homer,  sing  the  Achilles  of  the  seas, 
And  let  not  Lethe's  sullen  billows  hide 
The  prince  of  Corsairs  and  his  lovely  bride. 


27 

We're  not  content  the  glories  to  declare 

Of  this  heroic  race,  but  ape  their  air, 

And  high  and  low,  in  ev'ry  grade,  and  place, 

Copy  their  manners  too  with  vile  grimace. 

To  buy  a  glove  into  a  shop  I  peep, 

Straightway  fierce  Conrads  from  the  counter  leap, 

And  haughtily  demand  the  price,  good  lord  ! 

As  if  they  meant  to  back  it  with  the  sword; 

And  when  I  lose  my  beard,  I'm  in  the  pow'r 

Of  a  drawn  weapon  wielded  by  a  Giaour. 

A  tailor  is  but  half  a  man  'tis  said, 

You'd  take  mine  for  stern  Alp  the  renegade, 

So  proud,  so  fierce,  so  desperate,  he  scowls, 

And  if  his  bill's  not  paid,  terrific  growls; 

I  have  a  Tomlinson  to  clean  my  shoes, 

And  six  Paul  Cliffords  where  I  read  the  news. 

— Oh  !  when  shall  song  and  sense  again  unite, 

And  each  by  mutual  lustre  shine  more  bright  ? 

When  shall  the  judgment  and  the  heart  agree, 

And  sober  reason  sanction  their  decree  ? 

Though  verse  should  chiefly  please  the  charmed 

sense, 

It  need  not  give  the  cooler  head  offence, 
Nor  tinkling  syllables  delight  the  ear 
Alone,  but  also  court  the  taste  severe. 
Imagination  should  not  spurn  the  rein 
Of  judgment,  nature,  and  their  laws  disdain, 
Nor  fancy  riot  heedless  of  controul, 
And  scorn  the  dictates  of  the  chasten'd  soul. 


28 

Give  me  the  line  that  speaks  unto  the  heart, 

Delights  the  fancy  with  seductive  art, 

And  yet  where  reason,  nature,  taste,  may  find  their 

part. 

And  thou  too,  Moore,  the  bard  of  wine  and  love, 
Soft,  amorous,  as  the  cooings  of  a  dove, 
Britain's  Anacreon,  and  Catullus  too, 
Whose  rich  voluptuous  strains  the  spirit  woo 
With  every  perfume  of  the  odorous  East, 
Cull'd  for  thy  luscious,  epicurean  feast; 
Thou  too,  accept  my  pity,  hast  a  score 
Of  ardent  neophytes  on  this  far  shore, 
Score,  did  I  say  ?  the  list  cannot  be  told, 
So  vast  its  length,  their  names  so  manifold. 
One  celebrates  in  mawkish  verse  or  prose, 
The  novel  themes,  a  rainbow  or  a  rose, 
And  finds  in  ev'ry  flow'r,  and  leaf,  and  blade, 
Materials  for  his  low,  poetic  trade. 
Ceaseless  he  drivels  forth  his  ideot  strains, 
The  milk-sop  drippings  of  his  sickly  brains, 
The  wishy  washy  weepings  of  a  muse 
That  feeds  on  sickening  froth  and  stale  refuse  ; 
Puling  and  whimpering,  like  a  love  sick  girl, 
Of  winds  that  murmur,  and  of  streams  that  purl, 
Of  summer  clouds,  that  sail  athwart  the  heaven, 
And  stars  that  never  fail  to  shine  at  even, 
He  vents  his  namby  pamby  ditties,  trash, 
His  snivelling,  sentimental  balderdash, 
The  nauseous  rinsings  of  a  cup  of  tea, 
Which  he  would  fain  dole  out  for  poesy. 


29 


Another  not  content  to  stay  at  home, 

And  sing,  and  scribble,  must  in  fancy  roam 

To  the  far  shores  of  sacred  Palestine  ; 

Not  to  prostrate  at  Jesus'  holy  shrine, 

Or  like  the  fam'd  crusaders  of  old  time, 

Peril  his  safety  for  a  hope  sublime ; 

But  with  a  vulgar  itching  to  deface 

The  Hebrew  annals  of  their  antique  grace, 

In  barely  tolerable  song  relate 

Of  ancient  Solyma,  the  tearful  fate, 

Her  deeds  embellish,  and  her  tale  rehearse, 

In  humdrum  stanzas,  and  just  so  so  verse, 

As  if  he  fondly  hop'd,  vain  man,  to  mend 

The  word  of  God,  and  Deity  transcend. 

A  third,  the  duties  of  a  shop  attends, 

And  now  his  spirit  with  the  muse  unbends, 

A  yard  of  tape  now  higgling  sells,  and  then 

Delights  his  fancy  with  his  procreant  pen, 

One  moment  vends  a  pin,  the  next, 

Unmov'd  by  calls,  by  customers  unvext, 

Indites  a  stanza  or  a  lyric  spins, 

And  canting  doggrel  with  his  trade  combines. 

How  enviable  is  his  happy  vein, 

Which  nought  disturbs,  how  eloquent  the  strain 

Which  smells  both  of  Parnassus  and  the  shop, 

And  breathes  such  evangelic  faith  and  hope, 

Twould  lift  our  ardent  longings  to  the  skies, 

Did  we  not  dream  of  fall  of  stocks,  and  rise, 

And  think  we  saw  the  spirit  of  Cheapside 

Glow  in  his  verse  and  o'er  his  lines  preside, 


30 

But  am  I  mad  ?  this  bard  so  godly,  pure, 

Ranks  not,  I  ask  his  pardon,  with  Tom  Moore. 

Mark  that  poor  devil  with  the  rusty  coat, 

And  bristling  beard,  his  dolorous  phiz  but  note, 

Say,  is  he  not,  so  shabby  and  unshorn, 

So  sad,  so  sentimental,  so  forlorn, 

A  rich  example  of  the  poet's  fate, 

A  living,  walking  libel  on  the  state 

That  lets  him  starve,  nor  blushes  to  refuse 

A  crumb  of  bread,  to  his  pale,  tatter'd  muse  ? 

Methinks  I  see,  ah  !  melancholy  sight ! 

A  shred  protrude,  nor  black,  alas,  nor  white, 

From  the  worn  elbow,  lo  !  another  there ! 

My  modest  muse,  chaste  nymph,  will  not  say  where; 

With  piteous  tears,  my  melting  eyes  flow  o'er, 

Behold  a  third  !  a  fourth  !  I'll  see  no  more  ! 

The  dangling  skirt  in  vain  would  seek  to  hide 

These  moving,  meek  appeals  to  sordid  pride, 

For  alms  he  scorns  the  passers  to  assail, 

But  bears  a  mute  petition  at  his  tail. 

Yet  poverty  cannot  depress  his  soul, 

Nor  haggard  want  his  feelings  proud  controul, 

He  feels  that  he  was  born  to  write  and  sing, 

To  mount  aloft  on  fancy's  soaring  wing, 

On  wild  imagination's  pinions  rise, 

And  sail  sublime,  a  denizen  of  the  skies. 

What  cares  he  then  for  comforts  gross  below, 

For  joys,  or  pains,  he  scorns,  too  proud,  to  know  ? 

Camelion  like  he'd  rather  feed  on  air, 

Or  run  a  naked  savage,  than  forbear 


31 

His  lofty  spirit's  wants  to  satisfy, 

A^d  drink  in  living  streams  of  poesy, 

Or  rather  pour  them  forth,  for  poets  still 

Would  rather  give  than  take,  so  free  their  will. 

To  him  the  joys  of  verse  are  meat  and  drink, 

Food,  clothing,  ev'ry  thing,  he  finds  in  ink, 

And  wifeless,  childless,  he  would  rather  chuse, 

vSo  pure  his  taste,  a  mistress  in  the  muse. 

His  whole  existence  is  a  life  of  song, 

To  Phoebus  all  the  moments  fleet  belong, 

No  matter  what  the  subject,  or  the  lay, 

Which  he  assumes  for  fame,  or  paltry  pay, 

He  turns  to  verse  all  things  that  fall  into  his  way. 

This  day  he  pens  an  ode  unto  the  sun, 

The  morrow  to  escape  an  odious  dun, 

Proclaims  at  large  with  his  notorious  quill, 

His  clamorous  tailor's  unexampled  skill, 

Now  celebrates  the  radiant  stars,  and  now, 

The  lottery  on  which  they  smile  below, 

Or  writes  a  sonnet  on  a  lady  's  eyes, 

Or  patent  blacking's  merit  magnifies. 

Observe  that  strolling  poetaster  go, 

An  ambulating  bard,  a  public  show, 

The  maudlin  satellite  of  wretched  song, 

The  stupid  wonder  of  an  ideot  throng, 

The  muse's  vagabond,  Apollo's  jest, 

A  nation's  nuisance  and  a  public  pest, 

The  votary  of  Bacchus  and  the  nine, 

The  Anacreon  of  bad  brandy  and  worse  wine, 

Poetic  pedlar,  who  retails  his  wares, 

As  others  theirs,  at  public  shows  and  fairs, 


And  scatters  far  and  near  his  nauseous  strain, 

From  East  to  West,  from  Florida  to  Maine. 

See  him,  besotted,  desperately  scrawl 

With  an  old  tavern  quill  upon  the  wall, 

His  drunken  stanzas  and  his  beastly  strains, 

The  foul  outpourings  of  his  reeking  brains  ; 

See  him,  vile  spectacle  !  gulp  forth  each  time 

A  filthy  stream  of  mingled  beer  and  rhyme, 

While  at  each  loathsome,  eructating  pause 

The  gaping  listeners  hiccup  their  applause, 

And  laud  his  reeling  rantings  to  the  skies, 

While  gin  and  gratitude  pour  from  his  eyes. 

He  too  is  one  of  that  illustrious  band, 

The  famous  songsters  of  our  favour'd  land  ; 

Nay  !  start  not,  nor  his  well  known  merits  slight, 

Has  he  not  with  the  rest  an  equal  right 

To  fame  ?  can  he  not  boast  a  name  ? 

What  more,  I  ask  and  blush,  can  others  claim  ? 

Where  shall  I  find  the  talent  and  the  time 

To  celebrate  each  noted  son  of  rhyme, 

Each  real  poet,  mighty  man  of  verse, 

His  glory  sing,  his  merits  vast  rehearse  ? 

This  noble  duty  I  must  needs  postpone, 

And  trust  their  fortune  to  their  works  alone  ; 

Since,  justice  did  I  wish  to  do,  and  fill 

The  growing  canvass,  empty  were  the  will : 

For  each  vile  journal,  paltry  magazine, 

Of  weekly,  monthly  date,  each  sheet  unclean 

Of  reeking  folds,  each  dirty,  low  gazette 

Throughout  the  land,  can  boast  its  famous  set 


33 

Of  bards  for  hire  or  fame,  its  long  array, 
Sullen  or  sprightly,  wo-begone  or  gay, 
Of  Mortimers,  Almanzors,  Lauras,  met 
With  ev'ry  letter  of  the  alphabet, 
Eager  to  see  their  pseudo  names  in  print, 
And  far  too  vain  to  spare  a  gentle  hint, 
By  which  the  ladies  and  the  world  may  know 
The  genius  whence  such  matchless  numbers  flow. 
The  lust  of  scribbling  now  inflames  each  breast, 
And  song,  alas  !  becomes  a  public  pest, 
(Blest  art !  of  old  to  wondering  mortals  giv'n 
To  soothe  the  breast,  and  lift  the  soul  to  heav'n) 
An  epidemic  ill,  a  furious  rage, 
Bane  of  the  time,  and  torment  of  the  age, 
Which  groans  beneath  th'  oppressive  weight  of  verse  j 
Phoebus,  incens'd,  again  inflicts  his  curse, 
As  when  among  the  Grecian  hosts  he  shed 
His  wrath  to  avenge  Chryseis  captive  led. 
God  of  the  silver  bow,  ah  !  hear  our  moan  ! 
Remit  thy  rage,  Latona's  direful  son  ! 
Recall  thy  fatal  shafts,  and  send  a  cure 
To  cleanse  our  breasts  from  this  disease  impure, 
This  leprous  pest  that  spreads  on  ev'ry  hand, 
This  vile  infection  that  corrupts  the  land. 
I've  somewhere  read,  I  think  it  was  in  France, 
A  furious  mania  seiz'd  on  all,  to  dance  ; 
They  caper'd  through  the  crowded  streets  like  mad, 
The  old,  the  young,  the  cheerful,  and  the  sad  j 
Bishops  were  seen  to  trip  it  merrily, 
And  priests  and  Cyprians  join  with  equal  glee, 
4 


34 

Cowl'd  monks  and  veiled  nuns  rebounding  jump, 
And  meagre  anchorites  with  abbots  plump  ; 
Not  to  describe  the  party -colour'd  throng 
Of  soldiers,  citizens,  who  frisk'd  along, 
With  nobles,  beggars,  princes,  pedlars,  all, 
(As  oft  I've  witness'd  at  a  masquerade  ball,) 
Ladies  of  rank  with  common  trulls,  a  troop 
Grotesque,  now  here,  now  there,  now  down,  now  up. 
At  length  a  hoary  priest,  whose  pious  soul 
Was  scandaliz'd  by  this  adventure  droll, 
First  at  the  Virgin's  shrine  a  vow  address'd, 
That  she  would  deign  to  give  their  members  rest, 
And  then  by  exorcisms  the  charm  effac*d, 
And  from  their  limbs  the  jolly  demon  chac'd : 
The  fury  ceas'd,  the  dancers  made  a  halt, 
And  pray'rs  were  offer'd  for  the  general  fault. 
Oh,  might  some  exorcism  or  holy  charm 
Each  scribbling  member  of  its  rage  disarm, 
Relieve  our  fingers,  as  the  feet  of  those 
Who  furious  leapt  on  saltatory  toes. 
And  you,  ye  fair,  ah  !  you  are  much  to  blame, 
You  too  contribute  to  the  public  shame, 
By  lauding  each  low  effort  of  the  muse, 
Which  taste  should  teach  not  even  to  peruse. 
Why  will  you  ope  your  albums  to  the  strains 
Of  ev'ry  coxcomb  bard  who  sense  disdains, 
And  make  yourselves  recipients  of  the  trash 
Of  ev'ry  fool  whom  shame  cannot  abash  ? 
You  know  right  well,  in  all  things  that  men  do, 
They  chiefly  look  for  their  reward  to  you, 


35 

And  search  within  the  circles  of  your  eyes 

The  blame  they  dread,  or  the  applause  they  prize  : 

Woman,  sweet  woman,  is  the  end  and  scope 

Of  all  we  hazard  and  of  all  we  hope, 

The  source  of  ev'ry  joy  and  ev'ry  tear, 

For  whom  we  fight,  write,  sing,  or  suffer,  here, 

The  heav'n  or  hell  of  man,  when  gentle  or  severe. 

Why  lend  yourselves,  I  ask  then,  to  deface 

Your  country's  glory  and  your  nation's  grace, 

And  give  your  "most  sweet  voices"  to  the  host 

Of  babbling  bards,  to  shame  and  reason  lost  ? 

Look  rather  down  with  disapproving  brow 

On  each  poor,  paltry  songster,  nor  allow 

The  simpering  fool  his  fancy  to  beguile 

With  gentle  beauty's  approbating  smile; 

Yes.  without  mercy,  I  beseech,  proscribe 

In  everlasting  exile,  the  whole  tribe. 

I  have  an  anecdote,  I  scarcely  know 

Where  to  insert,  but  since  'tis  apropos, 

And  not  less  true,  I  think  I  may  as  well 

Relate  it  here,  just  as  the  thing  befell. 

Miss  Angelina  Wilhelmina  Stubbs 

Was  courted  by  Napoleon  Jackson  Dubbs, 

Said  Dubbs  a  lawyer's  clerk,  of  promise  rare, 

And  Angelina  sensible  and  fair, 

Only  her  stockings  were  a  little  blue, 

But  such  a  girl  as  you  or  I  would  woo. 

One  day  un  o  her  lover,  the  soft  maid 

Her  gilt-edg'd  album's  splendid  page  displayM, 

And  sweetly  smil'd,  and  said,  "  My  Dubbs,  my  dear, 

«*  I  know  to  please  me  you'll  write  something  here." 


36 


"  Write  what,  my  love,  say,  what  shall  I  indite  ? 
"  Really,  my  fair,  I  know  not  what  to  write," 
He  staring  said,  and  anxious  watch'd  her  look, 
"  Nay,  but  my  hand  would  spoil  so  fine  a  book." 
"  Pshaw  now,"  the  maid  replied,  "  you  surely  jest, 
"  Come,  Mr,  Dubbs,  some  verses  I  request 
"  From  your  own  pen,  some  stanzas — I  declare 
"  You're  quite  a  bore;  what  makes  the  fellow  stare  ?" 
The  lover  seem'd  astounded,  look'd  quite  blank, 
"  Miss  Stubbs,"  he  said,  "  your  civil  speech  I  thank, 
"  And  flatter'd  feel  by  your  polite  demand, 
"  Couch'd  in  such  terms  'twere  graceless  to  with 
stand; 

"  But  as  to  verse,  I  really  can't  comply, 
"  At  stanzas  yet  I  ne'er  my  hand  did  try, 
"My  studies  are  confin'd  to  legal  prose, 
"I  rarely  read  such  stuff,  much  less  compose," 
The  lady  bridled  up  and  knit  her  brow, 
"  What !  not  write  verses !  then  I'd  have  you  know 
«•'  You're  not  the  man  for  me,  no,  no,  good  lord  ! 
"  The  Stubbses  have  some  taste,  and  can't  afford 
"  To  waste  their  merits  on  dull  souls  like  you ; 
"  D'ye  think  I'd  match  with  such  a  monster?  Pooh  !'s 
The  lawyer  bow'd,  withdrew  his  case,  because 
'Twere  vain  to  plead  with  love's  capricious  laws 
He  knew  full  well,  abided  a  nonsuit, 
And  ceas'd  his  hopeless  claims  to  prosecute. 
— I  sometimes  hear  a  zealous  bard  exclaim 
«  What  has  the  country  done  to  foster  fame  ? 
"What  has  she  done  for  genius  and  the  muse  •*" 
And  of  ingratitude  the  state  accuse. 


37 

At  this  complaint,  in  mute  surprise  I  stand, 
This  modest  speech  !  this  righteous  reprimand  ' 
What !  when  our  country  lets  her  sages  die, 
O'erwhelm'd  by  debt,  and  utter  misery, 
And  higgles  yearly  o'er  the  paltry  pay 
Due  to  the  veterans  of  the  hard  fought  day 
Which  saw  at  length  the  tree  of  freedom  bloom, 
Blood-fed  by  those  we  now  begrudge  a  crumb; 
You'd  have  her  make  provision,  I  suppose, 
For  each  vile  dabbler  both  in  verse  and  prose, 
Appropriate  perhaps  the  public  land, 
To  glut  and  gorge  the  vast,  voracious  band 
Of  craving  poetasters,  begging  bards, 
Insatiate  of  honours  and  rewards. 
The  state,  fond  souls,  must  needs  become  dry  nurse, 
Or  milch  cow  to  the  suckling  sons  of  verse, 
And  Jonathan,  forsooth,  tear  off  the  locks 
For  you  alone,  from  his  belov'd  strong  box. 
But  "  hold  !"  I  hear  one  cry,  "  not  quite  so  fast, 
".Think  of  the  ills  of  poverty  aghast, 
"How  hard  it  is  with  hunger  pale  to  pine, 
"  Nor  have  alas  !  the  wherewithal  to  dine. 
"You  would  not  have  them  starve  and  perish  quite  ?" 
No,  pay  them  then,  but  pay  them  not  to  write. 
And  now,  I  bid  you  all  adieu,  my  friends, 
You  see  though  harsh  my  strain,  in  peace  it  ends ; 
I  feel  no  malice  tow'rd  you,  know  no  spite, 
Thirst  not  for  vengeance,  and  no  wrongs  requite, 
No  drama  damn'd,  rejected  lines,  incite 
My  wrath,  or  sting  me  on  to  write; 
4* 


38 


I  know  you  not,  thank  God,  nor  ever  shall, 

Not  one  of  all  who  desperately  scrawl, 

And  will  scrawl  on,  for  'tis  a  hopeless  ill 

That  ever  baffles  the  physician's  skill; 

Who  scribbles  once,  will  scribble  evermore, 

Nor,  self  admir'd,  the  dirty  trade  give  o'er; 

'Tis  thus  with  women,  many  never  sin, 

But  then  they  never  stop  when  they  begin. 

My  purpose  only  is  to  give  advice, 

Free  both  from  flattery  and  from  prejudice, 

Your  manners  to  reform  I  wish,  and  cure 

Your  cacoethes  fierce,  and  lust  impure. 

But  take  it  thankfully  as  sinners  shou'd, 

Nor  wince  beneath  the  infliction  of  the  rod, 

Submit  with  penitence,  I  say,  nor  spurn 

The  hand  which  fain  would  do  you  a  good  turn  ; 

Hath  not  the  monarch  wise,  ye  dull,  self-will'd, 

Of  old,  said,  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child  ? 

For  if  you  dare  recalcitrate,  nor  reck 

The  lesson  of  to-day,  this  trifling  check, 

Take  warning  now  before  it  be  too  late, 

Ye  mighty  small  ones,  and  ye  little  great, 

I'll  to  the  task  again,  and  try  a  strain, 

Which  shall  not,  by  your  leave,  be  heard  in  vain ; 

Again  Apollo's  aid  I  will  invoke, 

And  ply  my  weapon  with  a  closer  stroke, 

Each  recreant  rhymster  shall  behold  his  name, 

And  notes  and  illustrations  speak  his  shame. 

— Now  I  have  purg'd  my  choler,  spilt  my  gall, 

And  feel  more  placid,  I  shall  nought  recall, 

Write,  rave,  blaspheme,  I  do  despise  ye  all. 


(0- 

Sic  ubi  deseruit  madidos  septem  fluus  agros, 
Nilus  et  antique  sua  flumina  reddidit  alveo 
jEthereoque  recens  exarsit  sidere  limus; 
Plurima  cultores  versis  animalia  glebis 
Inveniunt,  et  in  his  qusedam  modo  coepta  sub  ipsum 
Nascendi  spatium:  quaedam  imperfecta  suisque 
Trunca  vident  numeris;  et  eodem  in  corpore  ssepe 
Altera  pars  vivit;  rudis  est  pars  altera  tellus. 

Ovid.  Metam.  Lib.  I. 

(2). 

"  And  the  land  stank,  so  numerous  was  the  fry." 

Cowper. 

(3). 

"  Great  Dryden." 

I  have  ranked  Dryden  in  the  list  as  a  cotemporary,  al 
though  he  died  the  year  previous  to  that  in  which  Anne 
ascended  the  throne. 

(4). 

"  Counts  like  young  David  its  ten  thousand  strong," 
I  find  that  my  recollection  of  the  passage  to  which 
this  allusion  is  made  was  not  accurate.  It  runs  thus: — 
And  the  women  answered  one  another  as  they  played, 
and  said,  Saul  has  slain  his  thousands,  and  David  his  ten 
thousands. — 1  Saml.  xviii.  7. 

(5). 

"  Make  Goshen  cheeses." 

These  elegant  products,  I  am  told,  derive  their  name 
from  a  place  in  New  York,  and  not  "  old"  New  England. 
C'est  fgal,  cela  revient  au  meme. 


40 


(6). 

"Syronize." 

I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  inventing  this  verb,  which 
corresponds  in  character  with  the  Italian  Danteggiare, 
to  Dantify,  i,  e.  to  imitate  Dante. 


41 
Epistle  to  II.  A -r,  ML  D. 

OF 

CHARLESTON,  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

Much  lov'd  and  honor'd  friend,  accept  this  line, 
An  humble  offering  at  affection's  shrine, 
Indulge  the  modest  tribute  of  a  heart 
That  clings  to  thine,  tho'  time  and  distance  part, 
And  loves  to  dwell  on  days  and  hours  gone  by, 
Though  joy  be  mingled  there  with  many  an  aching 

sigh. 

Together  have  we  roam'd  the  distant  shore, 
Where  art  and  science  spread  their  ample  store, 
Join'd  arm  in  arm,  have  wander'd  oft  and  long 
O'er  scenes  immortaliz'd  in  poet's  song, 
Or  fam'd  for  glorious  deeds,  the  historic  page 
Hath  blazon'd  forth  to  each  admiring  age  ; 
View'd  where  the  mighty  dead  in  dust  repose, 
O'er  whom  the  shades  of  vanish'd  centuries  close 
In  vain,  for  oft  lamenting  genius  weeps, 
And  memory  o'er  their  tombs,  her  sacred  vigil  keeps. 
Together  have  we  plough'd  the  trackless  main, 
Where  restless  tempests  hold  their  stormy  reign 
In  wild  dominion  o'er  the  watery  plain, 
Mark'd  the  rough  billows  in  their  boisterous  play, 
And  thought  how  like  years,  ages,  roll  away, 
(Those  waves  that  stir  time's  agitated  sea 
Awhile,  then  sink  into  eternity,) 


42 

Till  landed  on  our  native  shore  at  last, 
We  turn  and  shudder  at  the  perils  past, 
Not  the  fierce  dangers  of  the  tempest's  force, 
But  those  more  threat'ning  of  youth's  stormy  course. 
Through  ev'ry  changing  scene  of  joy  or  ill, 
Thy  soul,  my  friend,  was  firm  and  faithful  still, 
Nor  could  affliction  blight,  though  oft  oppress'd 
By  grief,  one  holy  feeling  of  thy  breast ; 
Then,  know,  could  verse  of  mine  aspire  to  fame, 
With  grateful  pride,  it  should  record  thy  name, 
A  name  whose  honest  characters  would  grace 
The  page  that  flattery's  breath  shall  ne'er  deface. 
An  exile  long  upon  a  distant  strand, 
Once  more  upon  my  parent  soil  I  stand, 
Taste  with  delight  of  peace  to  me  unknown, 
Since  four  sad  years  with  gloomy  wing  have  flown, 
And  blest  with  respite  short  from  anxious  care, 
And  ills  that  wrung  my  spirit  to  despair, 
Sooth'd  by  the  stillness  of  a  tranquil  hour, 
Oft  yield  my  soul  to  meditation's  pow'r; 
Whether  with  sauntering  step  I  tread  the  lawn, 
Or  night's  dark  curtain  o'er  the  scene  be  drawn, 
Whether  I  haunt  the  busy  walks  of  life, 
Or  steal  to  solitude  from  earth's  low  strife, 
Conflicting  thoughts  commune  within  my  breast, 
Pursue  my  steps,  the  couch  of  sleep  infest, 
And  frequent,  from  my  eyelids  banish  rest. 
Vain  the  proud  wish  to  search  with  piercing  eye, 
Vain  the  attempt  to  fathom  Deity, 
And  read  the  hidden  counsels  of  that  mind, 
Which  form'd  fond  mortals  impotent  and  blind, 


43 

And  spake  to  man,  as  to  the  billows'  flow, 
"Thus  far  thy  course,  no  farther  shalt  thou  go." 
But  vainer  still  would  be  the  attempt  to  crush 
Those  thoughts  aspiring,  that  for  ever  rush 
Into  the  restless  soul,  and  eager  crave 
Knowledge  forbid,  and  seal'd  until  the  grave; 
Though  oft  repuls'cl  they  still  will  question  fate, 
And  seek  with  prying  gaze  the  veil  to  penetrate. 
For  ever  on  the  wing  man's  spirit  soars, 
Th'  unfathomed  abyss  of  thought  explores, 
Roams  with  bold  flight  the  empyrean  realm, 
Or  plunges  where  night's  deepest  shades  o'er  whelm, 
Unwearied  roves  through  fancy's  boundless  reign, 
Nor  shrinks  from  dread  Eternity's  domain  ; 
With  heav'n  directed  eye  aspiring,  spurns 
Her  earthly  dwelling,  and  for  ever  burns 
For  joys  forbid,  and  knowledge  hopeless  here, 
Found  haply  in  some  bright,  celestial  sphere, 
The  secret  goal  to  which  her  longing  tends, 
But  whose  far  entrance  mortal  bar  defends. 
Hence  thy  high  dream,  philosophy,  proceeds, 
Hence  superstition  with  her  countless  creeds, 
Hence  the  vain  systems  that  pretend  to  scan, 
And  analyze  creation's  mighty  plan; 
A  thousand  schemes  ingenious  man  hath  wrought, 
By  fancy  colour'd,  with  false  learning  fraught, 
The  hidden  mystery  of  man  t'  expound, 
And  pluck  the  veil  in  which  all  things  are  bound. 
Need  I,  my  friend,  dwell  longer  on  this  theme 
And  spread  before  thee  each  illustrious  dream  ? 


44 

Shall  I  with  Plato  take  my  flight  on  high, 

Or  wallow  in  the  "  Epicurean  stye  ?" 

With  oracles  adorn  my  modest  page, 

Of  old  proclaim'd  by  Athens'  god-like  sage, 

And  cull,  from  ancient  and  from  modern  store, 

A  harvest  rich  of  philosophic  lore  ? 

No,  vain  were  such  display ;  thou  know'st  full  well. 

And  better  far  indeed  than  I  can  tell, 

Each  fond  endeavour  of  the  human  mind 

To  grasp  at  Deity,  his  purpose  find, 

Explore  the  depths  obscure  of  hidden  fate, 

The  secrets  dread  of  life,  and  death,  to  penetrate. 

Mid  these  perplexing  thoughts,  that  oft  infest, 

And  ever  agitate  the  anxious  breast, 

That  lure  the  impatient  soul  in  quest  of  light 

In  vain,  to  dissipate  the  gloom  of  night, 

None  more  than  this  torments  my  troubled  mind, 

Or  fills  me  with  compassion  for  mankind; 

The  sad  conviction,  that  the  transient  gleam 

Of  bliss,  is  but  an  unsubstantial  dream, 

Whose  visions  bright  seduce  the  eye  of  youth 

With  radiant  hopes  that  fly  the  touch  of  truth  ; 

And  when  I  view  the  chace  of  transient  good 

That  still  contrives  the  eager  grasp  t*  elude, 

And  mark  the  brilliant  prospects  that  caress 

The  soul  with  promise  bright  of  happiness, 

Then  fade  away,  and  as  they  disappear, 

Leave  in  the  breast,  a  void  all  dark  and  drear, 

Was  man,  I  sometimes  ask,  as  hath  been  said, 

The  sport  of  heaven,  its  jest  and  riddle  made  ? 


45 

Or  was  he  form'd  by  some  foul  fiend  of  night 
To  vent  on  him  his  vengeance  and  his  spite  ? 
No,  far  from  me  such  impious  thought  be  driv'n, 
Let  me  not  mock  the  majesty  of  heav'n; 
My  purpose  only  is  to  show  the  cloud 
That  wraps  man's  destiny  as  in  a  shroud, 
The  mist  in  which  he  wanders,  and  the  gloom 
That  shades  his  weary  passage  to  the  tomb. 
The  time  will  doubtless  come,  perhaps  'tis  near, 
When  plain  the  awful  mystery  shall  appear, 
When  God  shall  deem  it  proper  to  display 
His  hidden  purposes,  his  secret  way, 
And  night  and  darkness,  yield  to  heaven's  eternal 

day. 

— In  the  bright  morning  of  our  days,  when  life 
With  all  the  blooming  charms  of  youth  is  rife, 
When  health  and  glowing  spirits  ever  cheer, 
And  deck  with  smiles  the  spring  time  of  the  year. 
When  undeceiv'd  by  knowledge  of  the  past, 
We  deem  each  fair  enchanting  scene  will  last, 
At  list  confiding  to  the  syren  voice 
Of  soothing  hope,  that  ever  bids  rejoice; 
Bright  hour !  when  all  things  lovely  haunt  the  breast, 
And  joyous  innocence  affords  a  zest 
To  bliss,  that  later  pleasures  cannot  know, 
Nor  after  life  again  on  man  bestow ; 
In  that  fair  dawn  of  life's  expanding  day, 
What  visions  bright  around  the  fancy  play, 
What  tempting  dreams  of  bliss  the  soul  caress, 
Of  joys  untold,  and  untried  happiness  ! 
5 


46 

A  thousand  gay  imaginations  rise, 

And  dimly  float  before  the  ravishM  eyes, 

Unutterable  thoughts  the  bosom  swell 

With  vague  emotions  language  cannot  tell, 

Fantastic  hopes  the  exulting  breast  elate, 

And  raptures  high  the  soul  intoxicate. 

Methinks  the  ardent  youth  reclin'd  I  see 

Beneath  the  shade  of  some  fair  spreading  tree, 

While  at  his  outstretch'd  feet  a  rivulet  flows, 

That  makes  a  gentle  murmuring  as  it  goes, 

Mingling  its  music  with  the  soothing  sound 

Of  summer  winds,  that  breathe  a  fragrance  round; 

The  enchanting  beauties  of  the  scene  and  hour, 

Come  o'er  his  spirit  with  a  magic  pow'r, 

Charming  each  sense  acute  to  ecstacy, 

Till  sinks  his  soul  at  length,  deep  plung'd  in  reverie. 

Mark  the  flush'd  cheek,  the  eye  to  heav'n  addrest 

With  fix'd  and  fervent  glance,  the  labouring  breast 

That  strives  in  vain  for  speech,  the  kindling  brow 

That  with  unearthly  ardour  seems  to  glow. 

Who  that  beholds  the  rapture  of  that  eye 

Whose  gaze  intense  is  proudly  fix'd  on  high, 

As  if  the  soul  to  hold  communion  strove 

With  the  bright  throng  that  tread  the  courts  above, 

Or  pierce  at  least  the  dazzling  curtain  thro' 

That  hides  the  blest  abodes  from  mortal  view, 

Ah  !  who,  I  ask,  with  tongue  of  earthly  mould 

Can  speak  the  things  that  in  that  glance  are  told, 

The  musings  proud  reveal,  or  hope  to  tell 

The  thrilling  thoughts  that  in  that  bosom  swell  ? 


47 

How  eager  then  the  unquiet  spirit  spurns 

The  present  hour,  the  moments  past,  and  burns 

To  take  her  perilous  flight  with  wing  unfurl'd, 

And  fearless  launch  upon  a  stormy  world. 

Thus  the  proud  courser  at  the  starting  place, 

Longs  with  impatience  to  begin  the  race, 

His  ardent  courage  scarce  can  be  represt, 

His  eye  darts  flame,  and  heaves  his  swelling  chest, 

He  neighs  indignant,  frequent  paws  the  ground, 

Till  loos'd,  he  rushes  with  impetuous  bound. 

Ah  !  could  it  but  endure,  life's  dawning  hour 

Whose  fruit  belies  the  promise  of  the  flow'r ! 

Could  they  but  stay,  those  moments  bright  of  joy, 

Nor  beauty  fade,  nor  sorrow's  blight  destroy  J 

Those  tempting  visions  linger,  that  adorn 

The  blooming  scenes  of  life's  enchanting  morn  ! 

Vain  wish  that  combats  the  decree  of  fate, 

Change  is  the  tenure  of  our  mortal  state, 

The  never  failing  law  of  nature's  reign, 

Whose  sway  upholds  creation's  boundless  chain  ; 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  and  all  that  they  embrace, 

When  time  at  length  hath  run  his  weary  race, 

Must  perish,  we  are  told,  and  sink  in  gloom  ; 

Mortality's  inevitable  doom 

Nought  can  escape — above,  around,  beneath, 

Destruction  plies  with  fell  unsparing  breath, 

The  universal  frame  awaits  impending  death. 

— Thus  youth's  fair  prospect  changes,  and  the  day 

That  with  bright  promise  op'd  his  smiling  way, 

Sees  clouds  arise,  and  threat'ning  tempests  low'r 

To  mar  the  beauties  of  the  dawning  hour. 


48 

Each  op'ning  bud,  each  blooming  flow'ret  dies, 
Each  joy,  each  hope,  in  dust  prostrated  lies ; 
Fortune's  gay  smiles,  that  erst  propitious  shone, 
Scar'd  by  adversity's  malignant  frown, 
Fade  and  depart,  the  shades  of  sorrow  fall, 
Till  night's  dark  veil  at  length  envelopes  all ; 
Spring  flies,  and  gloomy  winter's  icy  breath 
Levels  the  vernal  scene  in  undistinguish'd  death. 
Consult  thine  own  emotions,  and  compare 
Thine  early  feelings  with  what  now  they-are, 
A  moment  stop  thine  onward  course,  and  cast 
Thy  vision  from  the  present  to  the  past, 
The  everflowing  stream  of  time  trace  back 
E'en  to  the  verge  of  childhood's  flow'ry  track, 
Survey  the  vanish'd  scenes,  the  prospects  fled, 
The  hopes,  the  joys,  now  mingling  with  the  dead; 
Evoke  and  bid,  as  with  a  magic  wand, 
The  spirits  of  the  past  before  thee  stand. 
Behold  !  they  come,  they  flit  like  shadows  by, 
The  motley  train  of  youth's  gay  pageantry, 
Unnumber'd  forms  of  shadowy  shape  and  hue, 
Whose  charms,  though  dimm'd,  still  tempt  the  long 
ing  view. 

Sad  is  the  vision  of  that  spectral  band, 
Hov'ring  like  shades  upon  the  Lethean  strand  ; 
No  voice  is  theirs  indeed,  no  hollow  sound 
The  solemn  stillness  breaks  that  reigns  around, 
No  tone  is  heard  from  that  sepulchral  throng, 
Of  joy  or  woe,  as  slow  it  flits  along, 


49 

Save  some  sad  notes,  that  faintly,  gently,  swell 
Upon  the  ear,  of  joys  gone  by  that  tell, 
Like  the  far  echo  of  a  passing  knell. 
Now  look  around,  the  chequer'd  scene  survey, 
Pursue  the  steps  that  throng  life's  crowded  way, 
Observe  the  candidates  for  bliss  that  press, 
And  join  the  ardent  chace  for  happiness  ; 
Behold  the  eager  train  that  hope  impels, 
And  fortune  binds  in  her  delusive  spells, 
Mark  how  they  mingle  in  the  headlong  chace, 
Each  striving  still  the  other  to  displace, 
As  if  for  one  alone  were  kept  the  honors  of  the  race. 
Then  say  of  that  vast  multitude  how  few, 
If  any,  ever  reach  the  goal  in  view, 
Or  pluck  with  eager  grasp  the  tempting  prize, 
That  bright  and  dazzling  lures  the  longing  eyes, 
Though  oft  it  seem  in  reach,  nor  far  the  end 
To  which  their  hastening  footsteps  ever  tend. 
Whether  they  run  with  aspect  fix'd  on  high, 
Or  grovelling  creep  with  earthward  bending  eye, 
Whether  with  lofty  hopes  the  bosom  glow, 
Or  grosser  joys  of  sense  alone  it  know, 
Whether  love's  flame  the  raptur'd  breast  excite, 
With  transports  vague  of  more  than  earth's  delight, 
Ambition  mad,  the  thirst  to  win  a  name, 
Stir  the  proud  soul  in  quest  of  deathless  fame, 
Or  low  pursuit  of  wealth  absorb  the  mind, 
That  prompts  the  meaner  spirits  of  mankind, 
5* 


50 


Whate'er  the  impulse,  and  whatever  the  end, 

Or  high  or  low  the  anxious  vision  bend, 

Like  disappointment  doth  each  fond  pursuit  attend. 

— Here,  let  me  hold,  for  ah  !  'tis  sad  to  trace 

The  various  ills  which  human  life  deface, 

Sad  the  long  catalogue  of  woes  to  tell 

Whose  gloomy  list  might  countless  pages  swell ; 

No,  let  me  rather  turn  the  averted  eye 

From  each  dark  scene  of  wrong  and  misery, 

Seek  in  forgetfulness  the  sense  to  steep,  • 

Of  sorrow's  pangs  o'er  which  in  vain  we  weep, 

And  drown  each  bitter,  self-tormenting  thought 

Of  hopeless  suffering  with  which  earth  is  fraught ; 

Like  him  who  stretch 'd  upon  the  couch  of  pain, 

Flies  to  the  oblivious  draught,  nor  flies  in  vain, 

But  finds  a  refuge  sweet,  though  brief,  from  woes 

That  rack'd  his  frame  with  agonizing  throes. 

The  voice  of  wisdom  hath  proclaim'd  of  old, 

This  truth  by  sad  experience  ever  told, 

By  saint  declar'd,  by  sceptic,  and  by  sage, 

On  ev'ry  shore,  in  each  revolving  age, 

"  All,  all,  is  utter  vanity  below, 

Vexation  of  the  spirit  all  we  know  ;" 

A  truth  the  monarch  feels  upon  his  throne, 

Alike  the  wretch  who  toils  for  life  alone, 

The  victor  'mid  the  trophies  of  the  brave, 

The  lord  of  empires  and  the  quivering  slave  ; 

In  ev'ry  state,  in  each  pursuit  confest, 

Or  hid  at  least  within  the  aching  breast, 


51 

(For  smiles  will  sometimes  play,  and  gladness  shine, 

Yet  mask  the  bitterness  of  grief  within,) 

And  countless  volumes  could  not  make  appear 

This  oracle  of  oracles,  more  clear. 

Then  why,  you  ask,  this  melancholy  tale, 

These  sad  repinings,  that  can  nought  avail, 

Why  these  complaints  that  strike  at  nature's  plan, 

Yet  cannot  change  the  destiny  of  man  ? 

Thick  shades  in  gloom  his  course  mysterious  shroud, 

Nor  can  we  pierce  the  impenetrable  cloud  ; 

'Twere  wiser  sure  life's  cureless  ills  to  bear, 

With  patient  soul,  nor  murmur,  nor  despair, 

Heav'n's  high  decrees  are  ever  just  and  right, 

Though  thus  they  do  not  always  strike  our  sight, 

Nor  are  the  lofty  ways  of  Providence 

Fit  for  the  feeble  grasp  of  mortal  sense. 

With  confidence  and  hope  await  the  end  ; 

There  we  shall  learn  at  length,  and  comprehend 

The  ways  mysterious,  dark  designs  of  Him, 

Whose  hidden  path  defies  conjecture  dim  ; 

Knowledge,  whose  light  we  vainly  seek  to  know 

While  groping  blindly  on  our  course  below : 

'Tis  folly's  part  to  weep  our  sad  estate, 

Nor  tears,  nor  sighs,  can  melt  inexorable  fate. 

True,  yet  'tis  hard  within  the  bosom's  core, 

To  nurse,  and  pine  in  silent  sadness  o'er 

Ills,  though  irreparable,  pangs,  though  vain, 

And  weak  it  be  to  murmur  and  complain, 

The  utterance  of  woe  assuages  grief, 

And  sympathy,  thou  know'st,  is  sweet  relief. 


Be  this  my  sole  excuse,  as  here  I  end 

My  strain,  and  claim  the  indulgence  of  a  friend, 

Who  ne'er  hath  view'd  my  faults  with  eye  severe, 

Whose  mild  and  modest  censure  yet  I  fear, 

And  whose  esteem  and  love  unto  my  soul  are  dear. 


53 


THE  TOMB  OF  ST.  HELENA, 


hoc  quod  premis,  inquit,  habeto, 

De  tot  agris  terrae. 

Ovid.  Metam.  Lib.  V. 


Calm  was  the  air,  serene  the  sky, 
And  nought  was  heard  around, 

Save  the  hovering  seabird's  mournful  cry, 
And  the  ocean's  hollow  sound, 

That  murmurs  round  the  narrow  strand, 

Fragment  of  Afric's  far-off  land. 

I  gaz'd  in  silence  on  the  spot, 

The  solitary  grave, 
Of  him  who  ne'er  shall  be  forgot, 

The  mighty  and  the  brave, 
The  warrior  chief  whose  glorious  name 
Stands  first  upon  the  roll  of  fame. 

Doth  not  some  proud  memorial  rise 

In  triumph  o'er  his  head, 
Some  pyramid  whose  strength  defies 

Time's  ever-wasting  tread, 
Frowning,  like  those  his  prowess  won, 
Solemn  and  stern,  'neath  Egypt's  sun  ? 


54 

No  sculptured  columns  towering  swell 

Triumphant  to  the  skies, 
Nor  monumental  trophies  tell 

Where  slumbering  he  lies, 
But,  spreading  in  funereal  gloom, 
A  willow  waves  above  the  tomb. 

What  though  no  proud  mausoleum  crown 

The  hero's  dust  beneath, 
Nor  pyramid  of  ages  frown 

In  majesty  of  death  ! 
The  simple  grandeur  of  a  name 
Unmatch'd  in  time,  is  ample  fame. 

Words  cannot  tell  what  feelings  rose 

Within  my  stirring  breast, 
While  gazing  where,  in  dread  repose, 

Those  mouldering  ashes  rest, 
But  late  the  dwelling  of  a  mind 
Earth's  mighty  limits  scarce  could  bind. 

A  mingled  memory  of  the  deeds 

Of  him  who  sleeps  beneath, 
Of  thrones  that  fall,  a  world  that  bleeds, 

Of  hosts  who  pour  their  breath 
To  swell  the  blast  of  fame — for  whom  ? 
The  tenant  of  that  lonelv  tomb. 


55 

I  thought  me  on  Marengo's  day, 

And  Adda's  crimson'd  flood, 
Where  youthful  valour  bore  away 

The  victory  of  blood, 
When  glory  kindled  round  that  brow 
Now  mingling  with  the  dust  below. 

Thy  combat,  too,  dark  Austerlitz  ! 

The  deadly  strife  for  pow'r, 
How  ill  this  noiseless  strife  befits 

Thine  appalling  hour ! 
Nor  wert  thou  absent  from  my  view, 
Tomb  of  the  valiant — Waterloo  ! 

And  musing  with  myself,  I  said, 

While  gazing  on  that  spot, 
"  Must  thou,  whom  thrones  and  realms  obey'd, 

Share  too  the  common  lot, 
That  mingles  in  the  selfsame  earth 
Princes  and  those  of  lowliest  birth  ? 

The  imperial  crown  that  girt  thy  brow, 

The  sceptre  of  a  world, 
Where  are  they  fled  ?  ah  !  where  is  now 

Thine  awful  sword  that  hurl'd 
From  their  high  seats  of  kingly  pow'r 
The  craven  monarchs  of  an  hour  ? 


56 

And  where  are  they,  the  martial  train, 
The  pride,  the  pomp  of  war  ? 

Shall  ne'er  the  cannon's  voice  again, 
Like  thunder  from  afar, 

Come  rolling  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave, 

And  rouse  thee  from  thy  tranquil  grave 

The  trumpet's  clang-,  the  clash  of  arms, 
No  more  shall  wake  thy  sleep, 

Nor  at  the  conflict's  stern  alarms, 
Thy  soul,  proud  spirit,  leap  : 

The  din  of  battle's  maddening  roar 

Ne'er  echos  from  this  silent  shore. 

Is  this  the  end  of  glory's  strife, 

Ambition's  bright  reward, 
For  which  was  offer'd  up  a  life 

From  peace,  from  bliss,  debarr'd  ? 
This  the  rich  prize,  bestow 'd  by  fame  ? 
An  exile's  grave  !  a  fearful  name  !" 

Majestic  shade,  I  would  not  seek 

To  injure  thy  repose, 
Nor  on  thy  tomb  reproaches  wreak, 

I  am  not  of  thy  foes  : 
Thy  path  will  ne'er  again  be  trod, 
Who  wert  on  earth  a  demigod. 


57 


In  adopting-  the  metrical  form  of  the  celebrated  hymn 
to  Light  by  Cowley,  and  that  to  Darkness  by  Yalden,  I 
have  not  been  governed  by  chance  or  caprice,  but  by  a 
conviction  of  its  appropriateness  to  subjects  like  those 
for  which  I  have  employed  it. 

ODE  TO  THE  DEITY. 


Nihil  aliud  est  natura,  quam  Deus,  et  divina  quxdam 
ratio  toti  mundo,  et  partibus  ejusinserta. 

Seneca. 

Principio  ccelum  ac  terras,  camposque  liquentes 
Lucentemque  globum  lunse,  Titaniaque  astra, 
Spiritus  intus  alit,  totamque  infusa  per  artus, 
Mens  agitat  molem  et  magno  se  corpore  miscet. 

Virg.  JEneid.  lib,  vi. 


Being  of  unimaginable  might, 
Unspeakably  sublime  and  bright, 
Enthron'd  in  majesty  on  high 
For  evermore,  lone  dweller  of  Eternity  ! 

Source  of  all  light  and  life,  Almighty  cause ! 
Ere  time  began,  or  nature  was, 
Existing  in  thyself,  Creative  Mind  ! 
Wisdom  conceptionless,  Power  graspless,  unconfin'd! 
6 


58 

How  shall  man's  feeble  accents  speak  thy  name, 

God  of  the  universal  frame ! 

Or  tongue  of  earth  essay  to  express 

The  vast,  the  incomprehensible,  the  measureless  ? 

For  such  thy  nature  is,  mysterious  One  ! 

Untold,  unrivall'd,  and  alone, 

Whose  limit  is  infinite  space, 

In  splendour  unapproachable  who  veil'st  thy  face. 

First  Author  of  all  things,  Fountain  of  life  ! 

Thou  bad'st  the  elemental  strife 

Begin,  the  word  of  pow'r  was  spoke, 

And  leaping  from  the  womb,  rejoicing  nature  woke. 

Eye  of  the  universe,  thy  boundless  view 
Immensity  doth  wander  thro', 
Thy  single  glance  with  mightiest  ray, 
Creation's  vast  domain  doth  evermore  survey. 

Mysterious  Providence  !  whose  hand  unseen 

Impels,  controuls  the  world's  machine, 

Chance,  Fortune,  Destiny  or  Fate, 

Whate'er  we  call,  thy  power  doth  all  things  regulate. 

Eternal  spirit !  from  whose  centre  flow, 

In  unremitting  streams  below, 

All  motion  and  all  life,  thy  soul 

Extends  thro'  every  part  and  stirs  the  mighty  whole. 


59 

Preserver  of  all  beings  !  from  on  high 
Gazing  with  ever  watchful  eye, 
Thine  arm  upholds  the  endless  chain 
Of  life,  and  ever  doth  the  universe  sustain. 

King  of  eternity  !  thou  lookest  down 
Serene,  from  thine  immortal  throne, 
On  all  thy  various  works  below, 
From  thine   exhaustless  hand  perpetual  blessings 
flow. 

The  iron  chain  of  stern  necessity 
Thy  force  controuls  not,  thy  decree 
Is  fate,  which  Heaven  dare  not  gainsay, 
And  Earth  and  Hell's  deep  bounds  with  trembling 
awe  obey. 

Thy  simple  word  is  infinite  pow'r,  thy  nod, 

Dread  signet  of  the  approving  God, 

The  stamp  of  destiny,  thy  will 

But  speaks,  and  myriads  rush  its  mandates  to  fulfil. 

The  page  of  nature  where  reveal'd  we  see 

A  distant  glimmering  of  Thee, 

Thy  veil  reflects,  the  glorious  sun 

Is  but  the  shadow  dim  of  thine  effulgent  throne. 

The  gorgeous  canopy  o'erspread  by  night, 

With  countless  constellations  bright, 

The  silver  radiance  of  the  moon, 

Retiring,  fade  before  the  splendour  of  thy  noon. 


60 

Ocean,  whose  restless,  storm-excited  swell, 
Deep  surging  from  the  caves  of  Hell, 
Shakes  either  pole,  and  threats  the  sky, 
Is  as  a  drop  compar'd  with  thine  immensity. 

The  tempest's  rage  whose  fearful  breath  lays  waste 
Kingdoms  with  desolating  blast, 
The  whirlwind's  rushing  chariot,  these 
To  thee  are  as  the  sport  of  summer's  whispering 
breeze. 

The  thunder's  loud  reverberating  din 

Is  as  the  still  small  voice,  within 

Thine  ear,  the  flashings  of  the  sky 

Are  darkness  to  the  light  of  thine  all  lustrous  eye. 

The  wild,  portentous  comet's  trackless  race, 
Whose  wanderings  science  cannot  trace, 
Far  shooting  thro'  the  realm  of  night, 
Is  motionless  before  thine  all  pervading  sight. 

The  countless  tribes  which  people  the  wide  earth, 
With  those  that  from  creation's  birth 
Have  been,  the  myriads  that  each  star, 
Each  sun,  each  system,  holds,  with  Thee  as  nothing 
are. 

The  Stygian  realms,  death's  silent,  sad  domain, 

E'en  these  confess  thy  searching  reign, 

Thy  voice  can  bid  the  Lethean  wave 

Emerge  to  light,  can  burst  the  barriers  of  the  grave. 


61 

The  shore  where  disembodied  spirits  dwell, 

Whose  awful  secrets  none  can  tell, 

Where  crowding  from  each  clime  await 

The  trembling  shades,  their  last,  irrevocable  fate. 

Themystic,cloud-wrapp'd  land  whence  none  return, 

Once  pass'd  the  inexorable  bourne, 

The  shrouded  mansions  of  the  tomb, 

To  Thee  alone,  reveal  the  terrors  of  their  gloom. 

The  soaring  spirit  that  inspires  man's  breast, 
Mortality's  immortal  guest, 
This  craving,  knowledge-thirsting  soul, 
From  thee  its  source,  first  sprang,  still  seeks  Thee 
as  its  goal. 

Dark  and  invisible  are  all  thy  ways, 

Dark  from  the  splendour  of  thy  blaze, 

Thy  glorious  path  is  veil'd  in  night 

To  mortal  eyes,  because  insufferably  bright.  * 

Being!  whom  worlds  untold  of  magnify, 
For  stretch  of  human  thought  too  high, 
Source  of  thy  proper  happiness, 
Unutterable  name,  infinite,  fathomless  ! 


*  Dark  with  excessive  bright  thy  skirts  appear. 

Milton. 


6* 


62 

Almighty  !  who  thro*  endless  time  dost  live, 

And  shalt  all  other  life  survive, 

To  whom  eternity  is  as  a  speck 

Of  mist,  a  drop  dissolv'd,  the  universal  wreck. 

Whose  glory  ear  hath  not  heard,  eye  hath  not  seen, 

Whose  lustre  maketh  light  a  screen, 

WThose  image  thought  can  ne'er  attain 

Tho'  wandering  to  the  verge  of  fancy's  utmost  reign. 

Before  the  splendour  of  whose  glittering  throne, 

The  dazzled  cherubim  fall  down, 

From  whose  effulgent,  living  blaze 

The  seraph  with  his  glorious  wings  defends  his  gaze. 

Unspeakable,  unsearchable,  where  lie 
The  springs  of  immortality, 
Essence  of  all  existence,  Soul 
Of  the  universe,  Great  God  !  Thyself,  the  wondrous 
Whole. 

Shuddering  with  awe  and  terror  at  the  glare 
Of  thy  perfections,  if  I  dare 
Essay  to  shadow  forth  thy  form, 
Dread  Monarch  of  all  things,  crush  not  the  aspiring 
worm. 


63 


THE  SISTER  OF  CHARITY. 


It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  the  Soeurs  de 
Charit^,  are  a  religious  order,  whose  duty  it  is  to  nurse 
the  sick  and  relieve  the  afflicted,  and  whose  lives  are  in 
cessantly  devoted  to  these  pious  offices. 


Sister  of  Charity !  whose  pious  cares 
Support  the  sick  man  on  the  couch  of  woe, 

Whose  sacrifice  more  sweet  than  empty  pray'rs 
Ascends  to  heav'n,  like  incense  from  below, 

Can  aught  of  formal  worship  match  with  thine, 

Fair  child  of  piety,  and  grace  divine  ? 

Thy  ceaseless  office  is  the  work  of  love, 
To  soothe  the  sufferings  of  the  sons  of  pain, 

With  zealous  ardour  kindled  from  above 

To  sympathize  with  woe,  with  calming  strain 

To  whisper  to  the  sin-sick  bosom  rest, 

Child  of  benevolence,  thy  deed  how  blest ! 

With  anxious  look  and  sweetly  melting  eye, 
I  see  thee  bending  o'er  the  sick  man's  head, 

And  ev'ry  soft  endearment  fondly  try, 

To  pluck  the  thorns  that  o'er  his  couch  are  spread, 

While  tears  of  pity  flow  adown  thy  cheek, 

And  heavenly  love  glows  in  thine  aspect  meek. 


64 

And  when  all  hope  of  mortal  life  hath  fled 

Thou  striv'st  to  give  the  tortur'd  breast  release, 

Exultingly  thou  point'st  beyond  the  dead, 
And  whispering  to  the  sin-sick  bosom  peace, 

Thy  soft,  persuasive  accents  more  controul 

Than  formal  homilies,  the  shrinking  soul. 

How  enviable  is  thy  hapny  lot ! 

How  blissful  is  thy  calm  and  peaceful  way  ! 
Life's  vexing  cares  and  sorrows,  all  forgot, 

No  lowering  clouds  deform  thy  cheerful  day, 
But  shelter'd  from  the  ills  that  vice  await, 
Sister  of  charity,  how  blest  thy  state  ! 

Thy  time  flows  gently  'twixt  thy  cares  and  God, 
No  pangs  of  conscience  gnaw  with  bitter  tooth, 

Thy  bosom  feels  not  guilt's  oppressive  load, 
Illumin'd  by  the  rays  of  heavenly  truth, 

A  holy  rapture  settles  on  thy  brow, 

And  in  thy  face,  faith,  hope,  ecstatic  glow. 

How  happier  far  than  mine,  thy  tranquil  state, 
A  prey  to  restless  passion's  ceaseless  war, 

Now  low  desponding,  now,  with  hope  elate, 
And  sure  when  happy,  sorrow  is  not  far, 

Angel  of  love  !  what  would  I  not  resign, 

Pow'r,  glory,  fame,  to  change  my  fate  for  thine  ? 


65 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  STORM. 

Written  at  Sea. 

Terrific  spirit  of  the  raging  storm, 
Thou  that  in  gloom,  and  havoc  dost  rejoice, 

Delighting  nature's  visage  to  deform, 

And  frighting  earth  with  thine  alarming  voice, 

Dread  spirit,  that  o'er  land  and  sea  dost  roam, 

Wild  wanderer  of  the  air,   say,  where  hast  thou 
thy  home  ? 

Lov'st  thou  in  savage  regions  of  the  north 
In  "palaces  of  thick-ribb'd  ice"  to  reign, 

Or  answer,  dost  thou  rather  wander  forth 
Where  suns  meridian  scorch  the  sandy  plain  ? 

Thy  course  is  various,  now  thou  shak'st  the  pole, 

And  now  thy  blasting  steps  o'er  burning  deserts  roll. 

Wild  terror  is  thy  herald,  and  thy  train  ^ 
Death  and  gaunt  famine,  follow  in  thy  rear, 

Thine  awful  breath  is  heard  athwart  the  plain, 
And  nations  at  the  sound  grow  pale  with  fear, 

The  thunder  is  thy  voice,  and  from  thine  eye 

Dart  livid  lightnings  through  the  dusky  mantled  sky. 

The  winds  that  wild  o'er  ocean's  bosom  sweep, 
These  are  the  couriers  that  thy  mandates  bear, 

Which  do  thine  errands  in  the  mighty  deep, 
Coursing  with  swiftness  through  the  empty  air, 

The  circling  whirlwind  is  thy  restless  throne, 

Thy  mantle  is  of  clouds,  and  meteors  form  thy  crown. 


66 

Thy  chariot  is  the  dread  tornado's  blast 

Which  rusheth  fiercely  o'er  the  craven  earth, 

Tracing  its  path  with  desolating  waste, 
Seated  on  which  thou  ridest  proudly  forth, 

Spirit  of  wrath  !  in  vengeance  onward  sent, 

Thou  minglest  nature's  forms  in  one  wild  element. 

Before  thy  face  proud  man  is  struck  with  fear, 
And  trembling  looks  around  him  for  relief ; 

He  feels  his  littleness  when  thou  art  near, 
And  cowering  sinks  in  dark  dismay  and  grief; 

Thou  crushest  populous  cities  in  thy  wrath 

Like  empty  spray  which  garnisheth  thy  watery  path. 

Destruction  is  thy  sport,  thou  blow'st  thy  breath, 
Dark  spirit,  ruthless  in  thy  direful  might, 

And  hurlest  thousands  to  a  gloomy  death, 
Against  thy  wrath  'tis  vain  for  man  to  fight, 

Majestic  navies,  riding  on  the  wave, 

Thou  plungest  with  thine  arm  beneath  a  billowy 
grave. 

Thy  music  is  the  moaning  of  the  blast 
Mingled  with  waitings  of  the  drowning  wretch, 

The  dash  of  billows  in  the  watery  waste, 

The  roar  of  ocean,  and  the  sea  bird's  screech, 

These  thou  delight'st  to  hear,  while  ruin  stalks, 

And  desolation  grim  o'er  nature's  bosom  walks. 


67 


TO  ETERNITY. 

Infinity  of  time  !  whose  boundless  whole, 

The  insatiate,  all- searching  soul 

Essays  in  vain  to  comprehend, 

Thou  that  didst  ne'er  begin  nor  yet  shalt  ever  end ! 

Can  nought  our  souls  conceive,  of  thee  impart] 

Some  faint  idea,  thou  that  art 

Coeval  with  the  Deity, 

Who  though  he  made  all  things  existed  not  ere  thee? 

An  ocean  without  shores,  and  fathomless, 
Thy  substance  yet  doth  not  increase, 
Though  all  devouring  in  thy  course, 
Nought  of  created  things  to  thwart  thy  power  hath 
force. 

Thou  art  incomprehensibly  sublime; 

Compar'd  with  thy  duration,  time 

An  infant  is,  that  views  the  light, 

Then  shuts  its  dazzled  eyes  in  never  ending  night, 

Ere  earth  was  form'd  thou  held'st  thy  lonely  sway, 

Or  ere  the  sun  gave  birth  to  day, 

The  constellations  of  the  sky 

Thou  view'st  as  momentary  meteors  on  high. 


68 

Thou  hast  nor  youth,  nor  age,  no  change  thou  hast, 
The  future  ever  as  the  past, 
Unnumber'd  ages  roll  in  vain, 

From  thine  exhaustless  womb  they  are  produc'd 
again. 

Years,  what  are  they  to  thee,  e'en  ages,  say  ? 

The  drops  that  form  thine  ocean,  yea, 

The  vapory  atoms  that  ascend, 

Then  melting  fall  again  and  with  its  bosom  blend. 

To  thee  what  is  an  empire's  ruin,  nay  a  world, 
Into  destruction's  vortex  hurl'd  ? 
Calmly  thou  keep'st  thy  silent  way, 
Unmindful  though  the  universe  itself  decay. 

Thou  art  a  mystery  on  which  the  mind 

In  contemplation  is  struck  blind, 

Vainly  thought  seeks  some  refuge  nigh, 

To  rest  its  flight,  when  lost  in  thine  immensity, 

Whate'er  of  grand  or  mighty  we  behold, 

Or  in  imagination's  told, 

The  image  e'en  we  have  of  thee, 

Compar'd  with  what  thou  art,  is  nought,  Eternity  ! 


69 


TO  MIRTH. 

Say  sportive  nymph,  with  laughing  eye, 
And  step  that  bounds  so  merrily, 

Why  wilt  thou  flee  my  path? 
To  fright  thee,  Mirth,  what  have  I  done, 
That  thou  my  fond  pursuit  dost  shun, 

Say,  how  deserv'd  thy  wrath  ? 

Time  was  when  thou  did'st  ceaseless  bless 
My  blithesome  heart  with  fond  caress, 

For  ever  at  my  side, 
How  jocundly  I  tripp'd  along, 
The  groves  resounded  with  my  song, 

That  gloomy  care  defied. 

Young  health  then  nerv'd  my  active  frame, 
Nought  could  my  dauntless  ardour  tame, 

And  every  joy  was  near, 
No  pining  sorrows  gnaw'd  my  breast, 
Nor  anxious  cares  disturb'd  my  rest, 

A  stranger  then  to  fear. 

Exulting  hope  inspir'd  my  heart, 
And  constant  plied  her  soothing  art 

With  scenes  of  heavenly  hue, 
While  fancy  bade  her  prospects  rise, 
Ting'd  with  a  thousand  brilliant  dyes, 

Before  my  raptur'd  view. 
7 


70 


And  every  scene  of  hill  or  dale, 

Each  murmuring  stream,  and  summer  gale, 

Brought  bliss  without  alloy, 
And  every  tone  that  breath'd  around, 
And  every  flower  that  deck'd  the  ground, 

Was  redolent  of  joy. 

But  now  that  thou  hast  ta'en  thy  flight, 
And  wilt  no  longer  bless  my  sight, 

Alas  !  how  chang'd  the  scene, 
What  numerous  ills  my  soul  invade, 
While  melancholy  spreads  her  shade, 

A  prey  to  vexing  spleen. 

The  hue  of  health  has  left  my  brow, 
No  more  my  ardent  feelings  glow 

With  rapturous  delight, 
Dark,  boding  thoughts  my  mind  assail, 
And  powers  of  soul  and  body  fail 

Beneath  a  withering  blight. 

Ah  !  come  again,  inspiring  mirth  ! 
And  stir  the  languid  bosom's  dearth 

With  thine  awak'ning  voice, 
Disperse  the  gloomy  clouds  that  spread, 
In  lowering  shadows  o'er  my  head, 

And  bid  my  soul  rejoice. 


71 


TO  MELANCHOLY. 

Rapt  nymph  with  earth-ward  bending  view, 
And  pensive  face  of  pallid  hue, 

Contemplatively  wild, 
In  vain  I  strive  to  shun  thy  sight, 
Thy  very  frowns  are  my  delight, 

Affliction's  wayward  child. 

In  infancy's  unthinking  hour, 

Ere  yet  misfortune's  chastening  pow'r 

Had  weigh'd  my  spirit  down, 
I  sought  with  thee,  in  solitude, 
From  noisy  strife  and  clamours  rude, 

A  refuge  sad  and  lone. 

An4  $tiU  with  thee  I  love  to  roye» 
By  haunted  stream  or  snadowy  grove, 

Neath  moonlight's  pensive  sway, 
Or  where  a  never  ending  night, 
Thick  verdure  scarce  admits  of  light, 

A  solitary  ray. 

To  linger  by  some  ancient  tow'r, 
That  stands,  of  time's  decaying  pow'r 

A  mouldering  monument, 
While  sweeping  through  deserted  halls, 
Re-echoed  from  the  tottering  walls, 

The  moaning  blast  is  sent. 


72 

But  most  with  thee  I  love  to  tread 
The  silent  mansions,  where  the  dead 

Repose  in  lonely  gloom, 
Where  solitude  and  stillness  throw 
A  calm  o'er  those  who  sleep  below, 

The  sabbath  of  the  tomb. 

Thou  lov'st  to  dwell  upon  the  past, 
Thy  retrospective  glance  to  cast 

Upon  the  times  gone  by, 
While  venerable  shades  of  yore,  ' 
In  garb  sepulchral  crowd  before 

Thy  fancy's  gloomy  eye. 

Thou  art  the  nurse  of  wild  romance, 
And  genius  catches  from  thy  glance 

Exulting  ecstacies, 
The  flame  his  frenzied  eye  that  fires 
Thou  light'st,  and  'tis  thy  soul  inspires 

His  burning  reveries. 

Thy  presence  hath  a  hallow'd  charm, 
Which  can  e'en  wisdom's  pow'r  disarm, 

Can  pleasure's  influence  quell, 
Such  beauty  thou  dost  lend  to  grief, 
We  strive  not  e'er  to  seek  relief 

From  thine  absorbing  spell.  * 

*  La  melancolie  est  une  volupte  serieuse. 

Montaigne. 


73 


Sweet  hour  of  moonlight's  pensive  sway, 
How,  lovelier  far  than  gaudier  day! 
Robing  each  scene  of  hill  or  dale, 
Within  thy  soft  and  silvery  veil, 
I  love  to  gaze  upon  thy  light, 
So  sweetly  fair,  so  mildly  bright. 

Thy  placid  smiles  which  all  invest, 
Compose  the  troubled  soul  to  rest, 
And  hush  in  silent,  soft  repose 
The  bosom's  agonizirig  throes, 
Sweet  hour  !  thou  giv'st  thy  gentle  tone 
To  all  thy  radiance  shines  upon. 

Thy  soft  expanse  of  mellow  light 
Shed  gently  o'er  the  face  of  night, 
Imparts  a  feeling  to  the  mind 
Intense,  pathetic,  calm,  refin'd, 
And  to  my  view  thou  seem'st  to  be 
The  hour  of  nature's  reverie. 

How  often  have  I  lonely  stray'd 
With  anxious  footstep  through  the  glade 
The  partner  of  my  love  to  meet, 
While  thrill'd  my  soul  with  visions  sweet, 
Mov'd  by  thine  influence  from  above, 
Sweet  hour !  thou  sure  wert  made  for  love. 
7* 


74 

When  leaning  o'er  the  vessel's  side 
The  sea  boy  views  the  rolling  tide, 
While  sportively  the  billows  dance, 
Lit  by  thy  brightly  glimmering  glance, 
He  thinks  upon  his  distant  home, 
And  sighs  the  fate  that  made  him  roam  : 

For  crowds  upon  his  pensive  thought 
Each  pleasing  scene  by  memory  wrought, 
When  'neath  thy  heavenly  beaming  ray 
In  childhood  he  was  wont  to  play,  " 
And  sad,  he  thinks,  how  long  before 
His  eyes  shall  greet  his  native  shore. 

The  tints  which  daylight  brings  to  view, 

Thou  minglest  in  one  milder  hue, 

And  though  indeed  less  bright,  less  gay, 

Thou  seemest  but  a  softer  day  : 

Delightful  hour !  to  thee  is  giv'n 

A  look,  a  tone,  which  breathes  of  heav'n. 


75 


LINES 

Ufion  viewing  in  the  Lou~vret  the  celebrated  picture 
supposed  to  represent  the  mistress  of  Titian. 

Being  of  light  and  love,  whose  form, 
The  pictur'd  traits  of  vanish'd  life, 

Is  yet  with  animation  warm, 
With  glowing  loveliness  so  rife, 

Wert  thou  indeed  a  child  of  earth, 

Or  but  a.  dream's  ecstatic  birth  ? 

If  thou  didst  live,  I  envy  much 
The  happy  mortal  who  possess'd 

Those  matchless  charms  of  heavenly  touch, 
Who  with  an  angel's  love  was  blest : 

'Tis  bliss  to  look  upon  that  face, 

What  then  to  clasp  in  love's  embrace  ! 

If  thou  wast  not,  I  envy  still 

The  unrivall'd  soul  that  could  command, 
And  call  before  its  view  at  will, 

Such  beings,  that  with  fancy's  wand 
Could  people  earth  with  forms  like  this, 
And  revel  in  the  ideal  bliss. 


76 


While  gazing  on  thy  radiant  brow, 
Thy  dove-like  eye,  and  raptur'd  cheek, 

Methinks  a  bright,  seraphic  glow 
Is  kindled  in  thine  aspect  meek, 

Thy  charms  are  so  unearthly  fair, 

Thou  seem'st  a  rainbow  thing  of  air. 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  remnant  lone 
Of  those  bright  beings  who  of  yore 

From  their  high  seats  woo'd  angejs  clown 
To  earth,  as  taught  in  holy  lore : 

If  still  such  forms  below  had  birth 

Were  heaven  a  fit  exchange  for  earth  ? 


77 


THE  MOOR'S  LAMENT. 


I  have  somewhere  read,  that  the  Moors,  when  driven 
from  Spain  by  their  relentless  conquerors,  would  for 
g-enerations  after,  visit  the  shore  of  Barbary,  and  casting- 
their  eyes  over  the  waters  towards  their  lamented  coun 
try,  shed  tears  for  its  loss,  and  offer  up  vows  for  its  re 
covery. 

On  the  silent  shore  an  old  man  stood, 
His  locks  were  white  and  spare, 

And  he  gaz'd  upon  the  sullen  flood, 
With  a  melancholy  air. 

Deep  plung'd  in  reverie  he  seem'd, 

That  sad  and  lonely  one, 
As  if  of  days  gone  by,  he  dream/d, 

Of  joys  decay'd  and  flown. 

And  ever  and  anon  he  would 

Lift  up  his  hollow  eye, 
And  peer,  as  if  beyond  the  flood 

Some  far  off  land  to  spy. 

Vainly  his  vision  wander'd  wide, 
Tho'  bright  the  heav'ns  expanse, 

And  calm  and  smooth  the  ocean  tide, 
Nought  met  his  searching  glance. 


78 

The  tear  drops  gather'd  in  his  eye, 

And  roll'd  his  cheeks  adown, 
And  his  bosom  heav'd  an  aching  sigh, 

As  sad  he  stood,  and  lone. 

"  And  ah  !"  he  cried,  "  shall  I  ne'er  again 

Thy  lovely  shores  behold, 
Delightful  Spain  !  delightful  Spain  ! 

Where  my  fathers  dwelt  of  old. 

Thine  is  the  land  where  in  beauteous  glow, 

The  flower  and  fruit  unite, 
O'er  beds  of  gold  thy  rivers  flow, 

And  thy  heav'n  is  pure  and  bright. 

The  joyous  days  of  youth  I  sped 
Mid  thy  fountains  cool  and  bow'rs, 

Ere  the  sons  of  the  prophet  sorrowing  fled 
From  the  sword  of  the  haughty  giaours. 

Grenada !  Grenada  !  thy  lofty  walls 

Are  levell'd  to  the  ground, 
The  maidens  and  swains  that  danc'd  in  thy  halls, 

Are  there  no  longer  found. 

The  stranger  hath  made  the   Alhambra  his 
home, 

Each  beauteous  grove  and  bow'r, 
And  fountain  reflecting  the  orange  tree's  bloom, 

Hath  pass'd  to  the  infidel's  pow'r. 


79 


The  sons  of  the  prophet  are  scatter  Jd  wide, 

In  distant  realms  they  stray, 
They  weep  when  they  think  of  their  fallen  pride, 

And  their  splendour  past  away. 

And  with  constant  pray'r  their  hearts  implore 

The  God  who  reigns  above, 
That  again  to  their  vows  he  would  restore 
The  country  of  their  love. 

And  shalt  not  mine  aged  eyes  again 

Thy  lovely  shores  behold, 
Delightful  Spain  !  delightful  Spain  ! 

Where  my  fathers  dwelt  of  old  ?" 


80 


Why  shrouds  unchanging  gloom  the  brow 
And  flows  the  never  ceasing  tear  ? 

Though  adverse  fortune  darken  now, 
Let  hope  the  sinking  spirit  cheer, 

Then  weep  no  longer,  child  of  sorrow  ! 

A  brighter  hour  will  come  to-morrow. 

Affliction  cannot  always  last, 
Misfortune  will  not  ever  lower, 

The  fiercest  storms  are  quickest  past, 
A  calm  succeeds  the  tempest's  power, 

Then  weep  no  longer,  child  of  sorrow  ! 

A  brighter  hour  will  come  to-morrow. 

The  fairest  day  must  set  in  night, 
And  summer  yield  to  winter's  gloom, 

But  darkness  flies  the  morning  light, 
And  earth  revives  in  vernal  bloom, 

Then  weep  no  longer,  child  of  sorrow  ! 

A  brighter  hour  will  come  to-morrow. 


81 


Say,  stranger,  would'st  thou  know  for  whom 
Was  rais'd  this  lone,  sequester'd  tomb, 
Whose  simple  head  with  wreaths  is  crowncl, 
CulPd  from  the  flowers  that  bloom  around  ? 

She  was  a  fair  and  lovely  maid, 
In  all  the  charms  of  youth  array 'd, 
Whose  lover  left  his  native  land, 
To  combat  on  a  distant  strand. 

And  thus  the  mournful  tidings  came, 
That  urged  by  glory's  stirring  flame, 
He  sought  the  battle's  thickest  tide, 
And  bravely  fighting,  bled  and  died. 

There  came  no  tear  into  her  eye, 
Her  aching  breast  heav'd  not  a  sigh, 
As  this  was  told,  but  one  faint  shriek 
Was  all  her  anguish'd  soul  could  wreak. 

She  did  not  even  speak  his  name, 
From  her  prest  lips  no  lament  came, 
Sole  sign  of  grief,  the  deadly  hue 
That  o'er  her  cheek  its  paleness  threw. 

A  father's  pray'r,  a  mother's  wail, 
Could  nought  upon  her  woe  prevail, 
Silent  she  sate,  as  though  her  ear 
Refus'd  their  soothing  tones  to  hear. 


82 


And  oft  with  pensive  step  she  sought 
This  valley  near,  whose  groves  were  fraught 
With  fond  memorials  of  the  hours, 
When  love  and  bliss  were  in  its  bowers. 

Yes,  hither  would  she  frequent  come, 
With  heedless,  sauntering  step  to  roam, 
Her  madness  was  of  silent  mood, 
And  memory  was  its  bitter  food. 

A  stranger  enter'd,  as  she  stray'd 
One  day  in  her  accustom'd  glade, 
In  the  proud  garb  of  glory  drest, 
The  star  of  honour  on  his  breast. 

He  enters,  sudden  stops,  and  then 
With  hasty  step  proceeds  again, 
Again  he  stops,  "Ah  !  can  it  be? 
"  Yes  !  yes  !"  he  cries,  "  'tis  she  !  'tis  she  !" 

He  rush'd  and  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast, 
His  throbbing  heart  her  bosom  prest, 
He  spoke  not,  but  the  frequent  tear 
Fell  showering  on  her  temples  clear. 

At  length  he  could  pronounce  the  name 
Whose  tone  he  lov'd,  no  answer  came, 
She  seem'd  to  cling  unto  his  heart, 
But  not  a  breath  her  lips  impart. 


83 

He  press'd  her  face  with  tender  glow, 
Cold  was  the  damp  upon  her  brow, 
Wildly  his  maddening  eyeballs  stray, 
A  corpse  within  his  arms  she  lay. 


84 


How  few  the  joys  man's  life  affords 

To  satisfy  his  high  desires  ! 
How  little  that  he  meets,  accords 

With  that  for  which  his  soul  aspires  ! 
Vainly  he  looks  around  to  find 
Scenes  that  are  pictur'd  in  his  mind. 

He  seems  a  being  form'd  to  dwell 
In  realms  not  such  as  here  below, 

The  thoughts  that  in  his  bosom  swell,; 
Kindle  with  an  unearthly  glow, 

Perhaps  a  wanderer  from  a  clime, 

More  suited  to  his  soul  sublime. 

A  longing  stirs  within  his  heart, 
And  agitates  his  anxious  breast, 

For  objects  earth  cannot  impart, 
Nor  lull  his  lofty  soul  to  rest, 

A  feeling  high  and  undefin'd, 

That  racks  in  vain  his  restless  mind. 

Is  it  of  heavenly  fire  a  spark 

That  still  inspires  his  earthly  frame, 
A  glimmering  lamp  amid  the  dark, 

To  point  his  soul  from  whence  it  came, 
A  ray  divine,  whose  light  is  giv'n 
To  mark  his  kindredship  with  heav'n? 


85 


REPLY  TO  A  FREQUENT  QUESTION. 

Why  am  I  sad  ?  ah !  can  I  smile 
Mid  sorrow,  suffering,  care  and  toil, 
And  all  the  ills  which  make  our  life 
A  pilgrimage  of  pain  and  strife  ? 

Why  am  I  sad  ?  but  look  around 
And  view  earth  to  its  farthest  bound, 
Can  aught  thou  seeest  make  thee  gay, 
Thou  sportive  thing  of  fragile  clay  ? 

Why  am  I  sad  ?  where  seek  for  rest 
With  vultures  preying  in  the  breast, 
Passions  that  crave  in  vain  their  food, 
And  tumults  boiling  in  the  blood  ? 

Why  am  I  sad  ?  behold  that  form 
Now  icy  cold,  but  late  *twas  warm 
With  glowing  hope,  and  soft  desire, 
And  kindled  with  celestial  fire. 

Why  am  I  sad  ?  that  ancient  man 
Shall  answer  for  me,  well  he  can, 
Does  aught  he  speaks  thy  bosom  cheer  ? 
His  only  answer  is  a  tear. 


86 


Why  am  I  sad  ?  behold  the  car 
That  bears  the  blood-stain'd  god  of  war, 
Plagues,  famines,  earthquakes,  storms,  arise, 
And  banish  gladness  from  mine  eyes. 

Why  am  I  sad  ?  I  stand  upon 
The  dust  of  generations  gone; 
Like  those,  I  soon  must  pass  away, 
And  night  involve  my  transient  day. 


87 


Oh !  the  bright  days  when  youth  had  pow'r 
To  lend  a  charm  to  ev'ry  hour, 
When  nature  seem'd  for  ever  fair, 
And  undisturb'd  by  anxious  care, 
With  heedless  step  along  we  mov'd, 
And  gather'd  joys  where'er  we  rov'd. 

Oh  !  the  bright  days  when  early  love 
First  in  the  panting  bosom  strove, 
And  with  a  magic  influence  stole 
Into  the  unpolluted  soul, 
When  spread  before  the  ravish'd  eyes 
A  fair,  enchanting  paradise. 

Oh!  the  bright  days,  when  fairy  dreams, 
Array'd  in  fancy's  loveliest  beams, 
We  fondly  deem'd  would  never  pass, 
Now  faded,  vanish Jd,  all,  alas ! 
Ah  !  could  such  blissful  ign'rance  stay, 
Nor  yield  to  truth's  relentless  ray. 

Oh  !  the  bright  days  when  unconfin'd, 
In  future  regions  rov'd  the  mind, 
When  by  experience  sad,  untaught, 
Angelic  hope,  gay  visions  wrought, 
And  spread  before  the  raptur'd  view 
Scenes  deck'd  with  ev'ry  heavenly  hue. 


88 


Oh  !  the  bright  days  when  all  things  smil'd, 
Ere  through  life's  thorny  paths  we  toil'd, 
Ere  yet  by  frequent  sorrows  scarr'd, 
The  bosom  callous  grew  and  hard, 
Ah !  those  bright  days  for  which  we  burn, 
Are  gone  and  never  to  return. 


89 


A  DREAM  AT  SEVENTEEN. 

The  fervid  sun  now  past  the  midway  heav'n, 
Mov'd  on  with  languid  pace  tow'rd  milder  ev'n, 
Oppress'd  with  heat  and  toil  I  bent  my  course 
To  where  a  cooling  fountain  took  its  source. 

Here  on  a  mossy  bank,  beneath  a  tree, 

My  couch  the  turf,  verdure  my  canopy, 

I  sank  in  sweet  forgetfulness  to  rest, 

While  zephyrs  bland  my  senseless  form  carest. 

Scarce  were  my  weary  eyes  in  slumber  seal'd 
And  by  their  curtains  from  the  day  conceal'd, 
When  sportive  fancy,  gay,  aerial  queen, 
Of  bright,  unreal  forms  compos'd  a  scene. 

A  blooming  garden  round  me  spread,  methought 
With  ev'ry  charm,  for  every  sense,  twas  fraught, 
A  thousand  flow'rs  their  varied  gifts  unite, 
Some  by  their  fragrance,  some  their  hues,  delight. 

Here  stretch'd  a  silver  lake  its  smooth  expanse, 
Upon  whose  polish'd  face  the  sunbeams  dance, 
There  rose  a  shady  grove  in  stately  form, 
An  equal  shelter  from  the  heat  and  storm, 


90 

With  various  fruits  the  bending  branches  hung, 
And  on  the  breeze  their  spicy  odours  flung, 
With  sweetest  songs  of  birds  the  ear  -was  charm 'd, 
And  ev'ry  sense,  and  ev'ry  feeling  warm'd. 

It  seem'd  a  hallow'd  spot,  by  heaven  design'd 
As  a  fit  refuge  for  a  weary  mind, 
Where  freed  from  worldly  cares  and  worldly  foes, 
In  soft  security  it  might  repose. 

Enraptur'd  as  upon  this  scene  I  gaz'd, 

A  sudden  change  my  wondering  view  amaz'd, 

As  if  by  talismanic  power  deform'd, 

The  garden  to  a  desert  stood  transform'd. 

Where  late  the  lake  a  stagnant  pool  was  seen, 
Its  surface  cover'd  by  the  mantling  green, 
Some  leafless  shrubs  of  all  the  grove  remain'd, 
Whose  lofty  summit  late  the  earth  disdain'd. 

No  flowers  of  brightest  hue,  nor  odours  sweet, 
Nor  cheerful  song  of  birds  the  senses  greet, 
But  howlings  of  the  blast  whose  scorching  breath, 
Like  the  fell  simoom's  swoop,  seem'd  big  with  death. 

The  heavens  were  of  a  lurid  cast,  as  when 
An  earthquake  threats  to  leave  his  gloomy  den, 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars,  met  the  strain'd  eye, 
But  baleful  meteors  glared  athwart  the  sky. 


91 


A  wild  tornado  sweeping  o'er  the  land, 
Heaved  like  old  ocean's  waves  the  burning  sand, 
When  at  the  thunder's  voice,  and  lightning's  gleam, 
Startling,  I  woke,  and  shudder'd  at  my  dream. 


Ah  !  how  it  grieves  the  soul  to  part 

From  those  we  fondly  love, 
Condemn'd,  lone  exiles  of  the  heart, 

In  solitude  to  rove, 

While  clings  remembrance  of  the  past. 
All  that  of  happiness  can  last. 

That  sound  so  desolate,  farewell, 

Falls  mournful  on  the  ear, 
Of  joy  the  melancholy  knell, 

The  echo  of  a  tear, 
It  sadly  antedates  the  doom 
That  waits  within  the  oblivious  tomb. 

How  wretched  is  the  fate  of  man ! 

Since  e'en  his  very  joys 
Prove,  soon  or  late,  of  bliss  the  bane, 

As  time  or  chance  destroys, 
And  pleasure's  smile,  and  love's  delight, 
Must  surely  fade  in  withering  blight. 

Poor  wanderers  on  life's  weary  way, 
We  pass  from  stage  to  stage, 

While  the  frail  creatures  of  a  day, 
Our  reckless  hearts  engage, 

As  if  eternity  were  giv'n 

To  man  below,  or  earth  were  heav'n. 


93 

Yet  vain  we  seek  to  still  the  heart, 
It  bursts  the  chains  that  bind, 

And  burns  with  ardour  to  impart 
The  flame  it  strives  to  find, 

Abhorring,  spite  of  all  controul, 

The  dismal  solitude  of  soul. 


94 


LINES 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  IN  A  GARRET 

Ye  monarchs  of  the  earth  proclaim 

The  grandeur  of  your  state, 
Exalt  your  high  and  haughty  fame, 

I  envy  not  your  fate. 

A  loftier  place  I  occupy, 

I  soar  above  ye  all, 
And  what  is  more,  though  rais'd  so  high, 

Fear  not  ignoble  fall. 

But  safely  lodg'd,  my  eye  surveys 

The  world  on  ev'ry  side, 
And  as  with  downward  view  I  gaze, 

I  feel  no  common  pride, 

And  scarce  from  smiling  can  refrain, 

To  think  that  I'm  possest 
Of  that  which  all  men  strive  to  gain, 

And  sacrifice  their  rest. 

What's  thirst  of  fame,  but  a  desire 

O'er  fellow  men  to  rise, 
An  anxious  craving  to  aspire 

And  soar  toward  the  skies  ? 


95 

For  this  the  warrior  draws  his  sword, 

The  poet  wields  his  pen, 
The  miser  still  augments  his  hoard, 

Ambition  curses  men. 

I  sacrifice  nor  ease  nor  joy, 

My  station  to  maintain, 
Know  nought  of  cares  that  peace  destroy, 

Nor  feel  suspicion's  pain. 

Secure  I  sit,  and  look  below, 

To  fall  were  e'en  to  rise, 
Why  should  my  wishes  higher  go  ? 

A  denizen  of  the  skies. 

The  earliest  sun  illumes  my  head, 
My  state,  the  stars  declare  it, 

The  cope  of  heav'n  is  o'er  me  spread, 
High  seated  in  my  garret. 


96 


LINES 

UPON  HEARING  A  FRIEND  COMPLAIN  OF  THE 
SLOWNESS  OF  TIME. 

How  slow  is  time  !  ah  !  say  not  so, 
Swiftly  the  gliding  moments  flow, 
And  soon  his  hastening  stream  shall  be 
Engulph'd  in  vast  eternity. 

How  slow  is  time  !  his  constant  race 
Runs  with  a  never  failing  pace, 
And  rapidly  the  periods  roll, 
Which  bear  him  to  his  destin'd  goal. 

How  slow  is  time !  ah  !  where  are  fled 
The  countless  years  already  sped  ? 
With  hurrying  steps  they  journey'd  fast, 
The  future's  story  is  the  past. 

How  slow  is  time  !  alas  !  how  fleet ! 
He  wings  his  way  with  flying  feet, 
The  lightning's  glance,  the  meteor's  light 
Are  emblems  of  his  viewless  flight. 

How  slow  is  time  !  all  things  beside 
May  check,  however  swift,  their  tide, 
E'en  death  himself  may  be  delay 'd, 
Time's  ceaseless  course  is  never  stay'd. 


97 


The  lines  of  which  I  offer  a  translation  below,  were 
written  by  the  French  poet  Gilbert,  a  few  days  before 
his  death,  which  took  place  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine, 
in  the  hospital  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  at  Paris,  whither  he 
had  been  carried  in  a  state  of  derangement,  from  the 
adjoining-  palace  of  his  patron,  M.  de  Beaumont,  the 
Archbishop.  The  fate  of  this  interesting  and  highly 
gifted  young  man,  was  most  melancholy  and  heart-rend- 
i  ng.  His  principal  productions  are  two  satires  of  distin 
guished  merit,  in  which  he  lashes  with  unsparing  seve 
rity,  the  French  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  stigmatizes  in  glowing  colours,  the  unblushing  vices 
of  the  day.  These  drew  down  upon  him  the  vengeance 
of  those  powerful  writers,  which  together  with  his  tem 
perament  prone  to  gloom  and  melancholy,  finally  redu 
ced  him  to  a  state  of  mental  distraction.  The  immediate 
cause  of  his  death,  was  a  key  which  he  swallowed  in  a 
paroxysm  of  madness,  and  which  adhering  in  his  throat, 
terminated  his  existence  after  some  hours  of  the  most 
horrible  anguish.  The  lines  which  follow,  were  written 
in  one  of  his  lucid  intervals,  a  few  days  before  his  disso 
lution,  and  derive  a  melancholy  interest  from  the  cir 
cumstances  under  which  they  were  produced.  They 
have  always  been  much  admired  in  France,  particularly 
the  last  three  stanzas,  which  are  irresistibly  pathetic  and 
touching.  The  translation  which  I  offer,  may  be  regard- 
9* 


98 


ed  as  a  pretty  fair  approximation  to  the  sentiments, 
though  they  cannot  give  the  faintest  idea  of  the  inimita 
ble  beauties  of  the  original. 

The  God  of  innocence  hath  seen 

My  penitential  tears, 
He  makes  my  troubled  breast  serene, 

And  drowns  my  anxious  fears, 
He  yields  my  suffering  soul  relief, 
For  his  is  every  child  of  grief. 

My  cruel  enemies  have  cried 

Exulting,  "  Let  him  die  ! 
And  perish  too  his  name,  belied  !" 

But  thou,  Lord,  from  on  high, 
Hast  like  a  tender  father  spoke, 
"  Fear  not,  their  hate  shall  turn  its  stroke. 

Thy  dearest  friends  are  now  thy  foes, 

They  mock  thy  soul  sincere; 
The  mercenary  wretch  who  owes 

To  thee  his  daily  cheer, 
Traffics  thine  injur'd  image,  shown 
Stain'd  with  the  blackness  of  his  own. 

But  God  thy  plaintive  accents  hears, 

God  hearkens  to  the  cry 
Of  deep  remorse,  baptiz'd  in  tears, 

And  soothes  thine  agony, 
God,  who  with  pardoning  eye  surveys 
The  frailty  of  misfortune's  ways. 


99 

The  voice  of  pity,  I  will  wake, 

The  justice  sure  of  time, 
And  each  foul  effort  shall  but  make 

Thine  honour  shine  less  dim, 
Thine  uncorrupted  fame  shall  rise 
More  pure,  more  bright,  to  mortal  eyes." 

Oh  God !  who  deign'st  my  soul  redress 

With  virtue's  noble  pride, 
Thy  grace  my  heart  shall  ever  bless, 

In  Avhich  I  now  confide 
To  guard  me  in  the  lonely  gloom 
Of  death,  and  watch  above  my  tomb. 

A  sad,  a  momentary  guest, 

Life's  banquet  me  receiv'd, 
And  now  I  leave  the  bitter  feast, 

My  transient  course  achiev'd, 
Nor  tears  shall  on  the  tomb  descend 
Tow'rd  which  my  languid  footsteps  bend. 

Farewell !  ye  pleasant  fields,  farewell ! 

Sweet  verdure  of  the  grove  ! 
Where  nameless  beauties  secret  dwell, 

Proud  canopy  above ! 
Nature  with  all  thy  wondrous  store, 
Farewell !  I  ne'er  shall  greet  ye  more. 


100 

Oh  !  may  those  friends  who  now  refuse 

To  listen  to  the  voice 
With  which  I  pour  my  last  adieus, 

Long  in  your  charms  rejoice, 
And  when  at  last  they  sink  with  years, 
Their  eyes  be  seal'd  by  friendship's  tears. 


101 


'Tis  sweet  when  summer  rules  the  sky, 
And  rides  the  scorching  sun  aloft, 

Beneath  a  spreading  tree  to  lie, 
Beside  a  fountain  murmuring  soft ; 

To  feel  the  zephyr's  soothing  balm 
Play  gently  o'er  the  burning  cheek, 

While  nature  wrapt  in  holiest  calm, 
No  rude  alarms  the  stillness  break; 

Reclining  soft  with  book  in  hand, 
To  pore  o'er  some  delightful  tale, 

Till  bodied  forth  by  fancy's  wand, 
Flit  forms  ideal  o'er  the  vale  ; 

Or  as  the  expanding  feelings  glow, 

To  hold  bright  converse  with  the  muse, 

Till  numbers  soft  spontaneous  flow, 
Deck'd  with  imagination's  hues ; 

To  glance  in  raptur'd  reverie 

O'er  bliss  enjoy'd  or  promis'd  yet, 

Survey  bright  scenes  in  prospect  lie, 
And  present  grief  in  hope  forget; 

Till,  wearied  with  its  musing  task, 
Soft  sinks  the  soul  in  slumber's  arms, 

In  golden  dreams  of  bliss  to  bask 
And  revel  in  ideal  charms. 


102 


Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria. 

Dante. 


What  greater  grief  than  to  recall 
Delights  when  fled  and  vanish'd  'all, 
To  muse  o'er  joys  in  time  of  woe, 
O'er  joys  departed  long  ago, 
Past  pleasure  lures  the  heart  in  vain, 
And  adds  fresh  pangs  to  present  pain. 

Hath  not  each  day  abundant  share 

Of  ill  for  mortal  strength  to  bear, 

That  we  must  add  unto  its  lot 

Vain  sighs  for  what  were  best  forgot, 

And  seek  the  tantalizing  pow'r 

Of  vanish'd  bliss  in  grief's  sad  hour  r* 

When  age  involves  our  years  in  gloom, 

Say,  shall  we  sigh  for  childhood's  bloom, 

And  aggravate  our  hopeless  fate 

With  vain  regrets  for  youth's  bright  state  ? 

No !  let  each  day  alone  supply 

Its  ample  share  of  misery. 


103 

May  the  dim  veil  of  time  conceal 
The  bliss  we  can  no  longer  feel, 
And  may  the  bitter  memory  sleep 
Of  joys  for  which  in  vain  we  weep; 
When  recollection's  pow'r  is  grief, 
Forgetfulness  is  best  relief. 


104 


TRANSLATION 

OF  A  SONNET  OF  PETRARCH. 

Mid  desert  paths  and  solitary  ways, 
Pensive  and  lone,  my  languid  steps  I  wend,. 
And  my  sad  eyes  with  anxious  vision  bend 
Where  the  still  ground  no  human'trace  displays; 
My  only  refuge  this,  against  the  gaze 
Importunate  which  curious  mortals  send, 
And  in  my  looks  of  joy  bereft,  portend 
The  inward  flame  that  on  my  spirit  preys; 
And  thus  the  mountain  and  the  silent  vale, 
The  groves  and  streams  my  soul's  grief  under 
stand, 

Which  is  a  hidden  pain  to  others'  eye,; 
But  yet  such  rugged  path,  or  savage  dale, 
Where  love  can  come  not,  vainly  I  demand, 
For  converse  prompt,  he  evermore  is  nigh. 


105 
SONNET. 

ON  THE  FIELD  OF  MARENGO. 

And  is  it  here,  on  this  fair  quiet  spot, 

Where  nought  is  heard  around,  nor  aught  is  seen, 

Save  song  of  birds,  and  spring's  delightful  green, 

Embattled  nations  met  in  combat  hot, 

To  cast  with  human  lives  the  awful  lot, 

Decisive  of  an  empire's  fate,  between 

Legions  of  maddening  foes  of  various  mien, 

Where  fell'a'hero  not  by  victory  smote  ? 

Oh !  what  a  lesson  here  may  glory  read, 

Where  earth,  regardless  of  man's  petty  wrath, 

Riots  and  fattens  on  his  richest  blood. 

'Tis  sickening  to  behold,  as  slow  I  tread, 

The  flowers  that  garnish  desolation's  path, 

Nourish'd  by  mortals  with  their  vital  flood. 


10 


106 


SONNET. 


The  venerable  church  of  Sante  Croce,  in  Florence, 
contains  the  ashes  of  Galileo,  Machiavelli,  Michel  Ange- 
lo,  and  Alfieri. 


Tomb  of  the  mighty  dead,  illustrious  shrine ! 

Where  genius  in  the  majesty  of  death, 

Reposes  solemn,  sepulchred  beneath, 

Temple  o'er  ev'ry  other  fane  divine ! 

Dark  Santa  Croce !  in  whose  dust  recline 

Their  mouldering  relics,  whose  immortal  wreath 

Blooms  on  unfaded  by  time's  withering  breath, 

In  these  proud  ashes  what  a  prize  is  thine  ! 

Sure  it  is  holy  ground  I  tread  upon, 

Nor  do  I  breathe  unconsecrated  air, 

As  rapt,  I  gaze  on  each  undying  name ; 

These  monuments  are  fragments  of  the  throne 

Once  rear'd  by  genius  on  this  spot  so  fair, 

When  Florence  was  the  seat  of  arts  and  early  fame. 


107 


SONNET. 

Fair  Italy  !  thou  country  of  the  tomb, 

Deck'd  with  the  garlands  that  o'erhang  the  grave, 

Soft  land  of  loveliness  !  where  nought  is,  save 

The  beauteous  relics  of  thy  faded  bloom, 

Soon  may  the  day  of  retribution  come 

Destin'd  to  break  the  fetters  that  enslave 

Those  who  were  once  the  mighty  and  the  brave, 

Monarchs  of  earth,  sons  of  imperial  Rome, 

For  though  a  stranger  on  thy  far  fam'd  shore, 

A  lonely  wanderer  from  a  distant  strand, 

Yet  as  I  pore  o'er  each  illustrious  spoil, 

And  warm  with  rapture  at  thy  living  lore, 

I  feel  my  heart  with  filial  glow  expand, 

And  love  thee  as  my  own,  Ausonia's  matchless  soil ! 


108 


SONNET. 

Ah  !  whence,  oh  life  !  the  secret  charm  thou  hast, 
That  mortals  should  to  thee  for  ever  cling  ? 
Tho'  time  bears  off  on  his  untiring  wing 
Each  day  some  fond  illusion  of  the  past, 
And  shows  the  future  land  of  promise  waste; 
While  joys  departed  leave  a  bitter  sting, 
Nor  doth  each  sad  to-morrow  fail  to  bring 
Some  new  affliction  fiercer  than  the  last : 
Yet  nought  the  fetters  can  unloose  that  bind 
The  soul  to  earth,  nor  weary  us  with  life, 
Though  with  increasing  evil  ever  fraught; 
How  few  when  death  advances,  are  resign'd 
To  leave  a  world  with  ceaseless  suffering  rife, 
Whose  rare  enjoyments  are  so  dearly  bought. 


109 
FRAGMENTS 

FROM  AN  ABANDONED  POEM. 


These  thoughts  that  wander  thro'  Eternity. 

aradi 


Paradise  Lost. 


When  the  full  season  of  the  year  is  past 
And  fiercely  threatening  howls  the  wintry  blast, 
When  the  sad  trees  have  shed  their  verdant  dress, 
And  herb  and  flower  have  lost  their  loveliness, 
When  turned  to  stone  the  rills  refuse  to  flow, 
And  earth  is  mantled  in  a  shroud  of  snow, 
Dark,  gathering  clouds  deform  the  lowering  air, 
And  nature  seems  a  desert  bleak  and  bare  j 
Amid  the  desolation  of  this  scene, 
Made  gloomier  by  the  thought  of  what  has  been, 
This  dreary  waste,  this  melancholy  dearth 
Of  every  charm  that  cheer'd  the  face  of  earth, 
What  then  can  gladness  to  the  soul  impart, 
Or  soothe  and  animate  the  sinking  heart? 
The  cheering1  prospect  of  approaching  spring, 
Of  days  which  renovated  joy  shall  bring, 
Of  brighter  suns  to  gild  the  year's  gay  morn 
And  with  rich  fruits  replenish  plenty's  horn, 
When  each  fair  flower  shall  beauteously  expand 
And  breathe  a  fragrant  odour  o'er  the  land, 
When  murmuring  rills  through  meadows  green  shall 
glide 

10* 


110 

And  blooming  forests  crown  the  mountain's  side, 
When  jocund  flocks  along  the  hills  shall  stray, 
And  nature's  music  usher  in  the  day. 
Thus  man  for  refuge  from  his  mortal  fate 
Flies  to  the  prospect  of  a  future  state, 
From  earth's  low  regions  lifts  his  eye  sublime, 
And  looks  beyond  to  Heaven's  eternal  clime; 
Some  happy  goal  where,  run  his  toilsome  race, 
His  weary  steps  shall  find  a  resting  place, 
Where  safely  landed  on  some  blissful  shore, 
Sorrow  and  care  shall  visit  him  no  more, 
But  all  his  sufferings  here  below  forgot, 
Pleasure  unmix'd  with  pain  shall  be  his  lot; 
Where  anxious  fears  no  more  shall  rack  his  soul, 
No  bitter  drops  invade  joy's  ever-sparkling  bowl. 
******** 

Who  hath  not  felt  at  times  within  him  rise. 
Some  anxious,  craving,  heav'n-ward  tending  sighs, 
Some  high  desires  that  fill  the  glowing  breast 
With  lofty  aspirations  to  be  blest  ? 
Who  hath  not  felt  his  kindling  bosom  glow 
With  thoughts  that  proudly  spurned  at  all  below, 
Thoughts  nameless,  boundless,  undefin'd  and  high, 
Glancing  from  time  into  eternity  ? 
Gifted  with  godlike  powers  and  a  mind 
That  glows  with  feelings  of  unearthly  kind, 
With  faculties  that  ever  on  the  stretch 
Still  grasp  at  objects  far  beyond  their  reach, 
With  thoughts  that  wander  busy  o'er  the  past, 
And  through  the  future's  veil  their  prying  vision 
cast; 


Ill 

If  with  his  present  state  man's  being  cease, 
His  property  in  life  a  transient  lease, 
If  night  eternal  swallow  up  his  days, 
The  grave  his  everlasting  dwelling-place, 
Then  of  all  creatures  that  inhabit  earth, 
Most  cause  has  he  to  mourn  his  hapless  birth  ; 
Each  lofty  feeling  of  the  soul  a  curse, 
Of  pining  discontent  the  fostering  nurse, 
A  cankering  worm  that  ever  mars  his  rest, 
Each  high  desire  infus'd  within  the  breast, 
Urging  his  restless  spirit  still  to  strive 
For  what  no  sublunary  joy  can  give, 
An  ignis  fatuus  of  the  erring  mind, 
A  vision  false  to  tantalize  the  blind. 
Much  better  would  it  with  his  station  suit, 
If,  dull  and  heedless  like  the  stupid  brute, 
His  wishes  were  to  sensual  joys  confin'd, 
To  pleasures  gross,  ignoble,  unrefin'd, 
And  satisfied  alone  to  eat  and  drink, 
He  ne'er  aspir'd  to  reason  or  to  think, 
Nor  ever  enter'd  in  his  ardent  mind, 
Visions  of  future  bliss,  celestial,  undefin'd. 

######## 

With  aspect  shrouded  in  monastic  veil 
Mark  in  her  cloister'd  cell  the  virgin  pale, 
See  clad  in  coarsest  serge  that  form  divine, 
Those  lovely  limbs  where  matchless  graces  shine  ; 
The  parting  robe  betrays  the  snowy  breast 
Where  no  fond  wish  disturbs  eternal  rest, 
Banish'd  by  calm  devotion's  holy  frame 
Each  earthly  feeling  and  each  passion's  flame, 


112 

Cold,  rigid  abstinence,  remains  alone, 

Where  late  entwin'cl  gay  pleasure's  purple  zone. 

The  hope  of  future  bliss  absorbs  her  mind, 

For  this  she  leaves  the  dwellings  of  mankind, 

And  mortifies  in  penitential  grief 

The  world's  amusements  and  its  pleasures  brief; 

Her  glowing  fancy,  with  enraptur'd  eyes, 

Views  scenes  of  heavenly  joys  in  prospect  rise, 

Sees  wandering  in  the  fields  of  bliss  above 

The  parted  objects  of  her  former  love, 

And  kindling  as  the  ecstacy  prolongs,  • 

Hears  angels  hymn  their  beatific  songs. 

This  hope  consoles  the  hermit  in  his  hut, 

Far  from  the  noisy  world  for  ever  shut, 

With  this,  the  stream  that  murmurs  at  his  side 

Is  sweeter  than  the  vineyard's  purple  tide, 

With  this  he  loves  his  scant,  abstemious  board 

Far  more  than  if  with  costly  viands  stor'd, 

And  finds  within  his  solitary  glen 

More  bliss  than  in  the  busy  haunts  of  men. 

Joyous  he  hails  the  oft  returning  day, 

While  peacefully  his  moments  glide  away, 

Till  age  at  length  exhausts  his  weary  breath, 

And  soft  he  sinks  into  the  arms  of  death. 

The  martyr  fasten'd  to  the  cruel  stake 

Exults  in  suffering  for  his  conscience's  sake, 

With  eye  complacent  views  the  scorching  flames, 

And  to  the  last  his  steadfast  faith  proclaims. 

The  kindling  fires  that  round  him  fiercely  glow, 

But  show  the  calm  that  settles  on  his  brow, 


113 

But  mark  the  fortitude  and  high  disdain 

With  which  he  triumphs  over  mortal  pain; 

Visions  of  bright  reward  his  pangs  controul, 

Exulting  hope  supports  his  shrinking  soul, 

And  glorying  in  such  holy  cause  to  die, 

His  shouts  triumphant  rend  the  lofty  sky. 

This  hope  with  firmness  nerv'd  the  Athenian's  soul 

When  calm  he  drank  the  deadly  poison *d  bowl, 

And  high  in  virtue's  majesty  arose 

Above  the  bitter  malice  of  his  foes. 

'Twas  this  the  soul  of  godlike  Cato  stay'd 

When  rushing  on  the  self-directed  blade, 

He  thus  the  Caesar's  tyrant  pow'r  defied, 

And  rather  than  submit  with  Roman  courage  died. 

What  state  will  not  this  heavenly  prospect  cheer  ? 

It  soothes  each  pang,  relieves  each  anxious  fear, 

It  wipes  the  tear  from  pale  affliction's  eye, 

And  softens  to  a  smile  the  rising1  sigh, 

Blunts  the  sharp  point  of  fierce  misfortune's  dart 

And  heals  the  wounds  which  canker  in  the  heart, 

In  smiles  it  robes  e'en  death's  terrific  face 

And  turns  each  horrid  feature  to  a  grace, 

Its  brightening  hopes  life's  closing  scene  illume, 

And  throw  a  brilliant  halo  round  the  tomb. 

O  grant  me  but  this  hope,  celestial  pow'r ! 
To  light  the  darkness  of  my  dying  hour, 
Grant  but  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  bliss  to  cheer, 
And  chace  away  each  cruel,  lingering  fear, 


114 

With  dissolution's  pangs  I'll  firmly  strive, 
Nor  breathe  one  trembling,  anxious  pray'r  to  live, 
My  soul  with  joy  shall  hail  the  approach  of  death, 
And  sounds  of  rapture  seal  my  parting  breath. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  *      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

APR  Q  6  1991 

*•-* 

• 

1  S  »( 

0.  J      » 

>  1 

I  I 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  12/80        BERKELEY  CA  94720 

®$ 


C0315SM3fc,D 


hat. 
(Las 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


